The childlike wonder is written on his face, the gentle corners of a smile and wide-eyed fascination. He watches the magic float and dance before him, cosseted and warm, whilst long slender tendrils tease at the folds of his scarf.
His face upturned to the thin grey canvas feels vibrant, singing the easy lyrics of the breeze, wafting from chorus to chorus. A tender moment, a subtle and shallow movement is all he can see, as deep within him something stirs, a memory dislodged on the wind.
He knows what this is, he knows why and how this happens yet the wonder it conveys, the soft and transculent nature has him spellbound. The tiny crystals shimmer, pulling his focus this way and that, a sprinkling of wonder on an everyday postcard.
Lost to his memories he breathes in the sounds, hears every one and a million others from times gone past. He is now and then.
The taste of the air, the tang of cold fills his lungs as the glorious dull ache throbs at his fingertips. He glances around and watches them fall, each one doomed, a shattering moment of beauty all they can offer. He watches them fight the onrushing ground, shifting and pirouetting on the breeze, desperate to be noticed, to be seen.
And still the sparkling magic falls, glinting shards marking each tiny story as they knit together, cleaning everything they touch. The light builds and builds, crisp, brilliant, dazzling, as everything is washed white, virginal, pure and untainted.
He breathes out and watches his breath float away, and all around him the snow falls.