Lundgirn shovels the walkway that leads from his small, wooden chalet down to the lake. The night is still and each falling snowflake seems trapped in time as it floats slowly from the cloud covered, black night sky to the snow covered, white ground. His breath streams out in turrets of steam as he struggles only slightly with the work. The night was still. The only sound was the periodic scraping of his shovel against the stone path. The lucid night was soft and yet heavy around him as Lundgirn opened a way to the lake. The frozen lake. Lundgirn lived alone in his chalet. He was the sole person who lived in this part of the woods. He had spent many years perfecting his home and making it as comfortable as possible. Every morning he awoke to shovel the walkway. He would return, eat and then venture outside again to shovel away the newly fallen snow. Once finished for the second time he would enter his living chambers to gaze at his pictures. Night would fall sullenly and he would tromp outside to light his lamps. The woods would be alit with dim light, amplified by the white ground. It would create a slight haze effect. Like that of dreams. Lundgirn would then shovel the walkway a third time in the night before retiring to his bed chamber and dozing into a soft sleep. All year this is what he would do. All year the snow would fall. His setting would never change. The snow he shoveled would pile up but it never accumulated more than a day. Each day would bring the same amount of snow. Lundgirn noticed at first but eventually grew to accept it. He accepted it as he accepted that he would never see Hirst smile again. Hirst. Every time he got to the lake Lundgirn would feel a chill and he would know without looking that he had reached the end of his path. The cold air would not chill him the way that the feeling around the lake did. His soul would slowly get colder as he approached the edge of the frozen waters culminating in a frigid end as he reached the shore. He was chilled for what lay at the bottom of the lake. Frozen in time. Frozen in beauty. Frozen in ice. Frozen in life. Hirst. Lundgirn lived his life to pave a way for her when she would awaken. Lundgirn knew that the winter could not last forever and eventually Hirst would be free and they could be together again. The winter could not last forever. Each year he told himself that. Each new snowfall would be the last. She would rise from the lake, no longer a prisoner. He would no longer lift the snow from the walk.
The snowflakes almost seemed to hover in mid-air. Each one held in place by invisible strings. Dancing on the air but never acquiescing their place in space and time to give up their vigil amid their brethren in the dense night. Each snowflake trapped in time. A twinkle of lamplight off the top of the frozen lake. Lungirn lifted a shovelful of snow. He feels a deep chill and he begins to walk back to his hut, through the immortal snow.