In a quiet village nestled at the edge of a great forest, winter had arrived with a hush. The snow came silently overnight, covering rooftops, fields, and trees in a blanket of white so soft it seemed to mute the world. Fires crackled in stone hearths, and the scent of pine and cinnamon floated through every home.

For young Mira, winter was magic. She waited all year for the first snowfall, when the world turned into a canvas of dreams. That morning, wrapped in her thick wool scarf and fur-lined boots, she ran outside with her wooden sled in tow. The hill behind her cottage, now smooth with snow, called her name.

Sliding down again and again, her laughter echoed into the stillness. But this winter was different—her grandfather, who once built snowmen beside her and carved animals from icicles, had grown too frail to join. He watched from the window, his eyes glistening not from the cold, but from memories.

As twilight painted the sky in hues of lavender and gold, Mira came inside and curled up beside him. “Do you think this will be the last snow, Grandpa?” she asked.

He smiled gently, brushing a snowflake from her hair. “No, little star. Snow always returns. Even when we think it won’t.”

That night, the snow fell again—thicker, brighter, as if the sky had poured every last flake in its heart. And in the morning, the village awoke to a wonderland so beautiful, even the old forgot to ache. It was not the last snowfall—but it was the one they all remembered.