November. It’s time to die. We’ve lived a long, difficult, and very different life, despite being like two drops of water. No, not two… many more drops. A lot more...

Our childhood ran through the showers of March. Youth died during May thunderstorms. Adulthood quieted down during the summer wave. Old age crept slowly through gray autumn mists. Our bodies were constructed to collect information.

We evaporated, rose to the Heavens, to come back to Earth through rains. We were pumped through pipes, boiled, filtered, and disinfected. We washed thousands of hands, satiated many through hundreds of sips, and filled millions of arteries. The burden of such memories has become unbearable.

And now winter is at the door.

It is time to clear our memories and pass all the information collected to the Absolute. Death is the best way to purge, and our death is to freeze.

Sinners will face the Icy Purgatory of rivers and lakes. The righteous will ascend to the Heavens before returning to earth as white fluff. Both are destined to go into hibernation until spring when they will melt and begin a new cycle of gathering knowledge.

Damn. It’s so damn scary to die, folks. It’s scary and… cold. It does sound nice in theory: accumulate, purify, begin a new cycle… but what if everything isn’t like that in reality? What if suddenly there is no “later?” What if there is only darkness, emptiness, and… cold. Eternal cold, huh? After all, we don’t remember anything in spring…

Where are you, folks?

There is no one. The earth was left far below, just like before when I was evaporating. But then it was warm. And I would go upwards, cool down, and then soar back down in one swift drop. Now things are different. I’m slow and sluggish. And I have no desire to move at all.

I wish I could sleep.

So that’s what it’s like. Death. Almost like sleep.

Almost like slee…

Almost…

***

The first weightless fluff landed on the eaves. A little child was watching the small white star fall through the glass window.

“Dad! Grandpa! Come quick! The first one is here!”

“Lucky you. It’s come exactly on this day for some years now. Congratulations, son!”

“Happy birthday, grandson.”

Several more snowflakes joined the first one. And then more. And more.

The three of them were standing at the window: Spring, Summer, and Autumn. Each was observing the same picture. The approach of Winter.

The boy kept watching the white fluff all excited, putting his head on his hands and pressing his nose to the glass.

His father’s eyes were almost filled with hatred: he couldn’t help thinking about his problems while toying with his son’s hair.

Grandfather saw the signs of a rapid cleansing in each of the tiny, perfect hexagons. He shivered from the cold chill that ran down his spine.