The proper winters started thirty years ago. This shocked mankind to begin with, but we carried on. That first decade was tough. We went through a lot of fresh starts, and said a lot of goodbyes. But some of the technological advancements were astonishing. By the time I got to my adulthood, we had warmth, food, and entertainment, even when the winds piled snow against our front doors.
But the younger children still prefer the cold. We sit with plates of stew and cups of mulled wine, and those under nine march through the snow outside. They throw heaps at each other, and scoop great piles into meaningless shapes. We have to beg them to head back in. Any that obey sulk in corners away from the fire, nibbling on toast in silence.
Even then plenty choose not to return, even after nightfall. We have stopped searching. The snow makes travel impossible, and the next morning they return to the nearby verges, watching the houses from afar.
At least this is a form of play. What upsets me the most are the burrowers. The ones who make the snow their permanent home. They group in gangs of two or three, scooping out holes with gloved hands. They peek out the top, grinning under their bobble hats, vanishing deep within if anyone gets too close. More holes appear every day. The fields resemble rabbit warrens.
Last night a whole sack of carrots vanished from the food store. Most of the dormitories are missing blankets and pillows. I never hear the sound of children's laughter in the corridors anymore.
For the last few nights only adults gather around the fireplace in the Great Hall.. I am glad I do not have children on nights like this. The grey faces of the others get worse every day.
We do not close the curtains. But I no longer look when small faces stare through the window, the snow falling directly onto their shoulders. I have not endured fear like this for a long time.
Line: What upsets me the most are the burrowers.
