It was a wet night in early December. The ground smelled slightly of snow that had not yet fallen that year. It dared to, from the gloomy sky where it sat, but it dared not. The sky must have felt especially timid that year.
“The sky must feel especially timid this year,” Marrows said, staring up with his large eyes. “But I don’t wish for snow.”
“We want snow,” replied the two sisters. They lived comfortably in a large house down the road, among large firs that seasonally became so heavy with the weight from the sky that they moan heavily in the silence. “We want snow to play in. It’s fun, and we like to make pretend food out of it. But it doesn’t taste very good.”