If I Die Young

1. January

My adventures up until this point had been full of mundane outings and the odd and out vacation every few years. I'd never left my home state on my own before just recently, and although it had to come out of a very dark situation, I was almost glad for it.

What I wasn't glad for was being shoved into the back of a car with all of my personal belongings in a trunk in the back and told I was being taken over the state border to some halfway house I'd never heard of before. I'd put my earbuds in to block out the silence in the car as I stared out the window, admiring the trees against the gray skies and gazing at the fresh, powdery snow on the ground for which I was a namesake. The cold and desolate isolation of the place stuck out in my mind and suddenly I realized the parallels between myself and the substance.

"We'll be arriving in five minutes, Sable."

I didn't say anything. My eyelids fluttered slightly as I turned them back to the window; I could see myself reflected back in the glass. My eyes were an eerie blue, striking, yet somehow empty of depth. I'd been told on occasions past that they looked dead. They were my mother's, one of the only things I'd gotten from her side of the genetic line.

Five minutes later and I stepped out of the back of the car, my boots crunching in the snow as I walked around back to the trunk. My caseworker had been driving, a man in his late twenties with a clean face and combed hair. He was wearing a suit, something I didn't think was fit for the occasion, but work apparel is supposed to be worn to work. The heather gray did look nice with his eyes though, I would admit.

"Remember, everyone's trying to help you." He reminded me, and I nodded, only able to hear him out of one ear.

It was snowing again, the flakes falling and landing on my scarf before melting away in the wake of my breath. We walked up the driveway, a packed down cobblestone path with a fountain in the center, right up to the front door of the building. You could see the Victorian structures and design, but something about it struck me with a sense of unease. It wasn't falling apart and didn't look like it housed any evil intent, but something about the lack of movement from inside the windows and the cold, bitter air outside made me shiver.

"How old is this house, Emile?" I asked quietly, and he squinted a little in curiosity before adjusting his glasses.

"I'm not entirely sure myself, older than you and I for sure, though." He chuckled, the sound warm but also robotic. The man knocked on the door with a heavy ring, and after a few moments, it swung inside.

"Oh, you must be Ms. Snow!" A woman smiled at me from inside, holding her hand out. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You too, ma'am." I shook her hand, taking the time to notice her features. Miss Huld, the caretaker of both the building and the children, couldn't have been older than thirty; her blonde hair was pinned back in a bun and revealed an angular face with bright doll eyes set into her skull. They were as gray as the day outside, but still much livelier than mine. I loved the tint of her lips and her welcoming stance, and it helped to put my nerves to rest. She wore a vintage dress that was buttoned from her collarbone to her ankles and decorated in a pretty blue with white polka dots that reminded me of clouds. The dress shimmied around her bare feet when she turned to lead us inside, and while Mr. Crowley went in, I hovered for a moment before stepping forward.

The home was decorated with hardwood floors, cherry most likely, if not mahogany. There was a rack to my right which held coats and dangled above shoes, and beyond that was a hall. Further down to the left I could see a staircase poking out from around the wall, and a railing above my head. Standing on the balcony was a small girl, maybe six in age with green eyes and sandy braids. Orange ribbons tied off the ends, and when I tried to wave at her, the girl turned and took off running.