She has never seen snow before. It doesn’t snow in Hell, and even then Secunda doesn’t leave the hive much. It’s dangerous out there, she can’t defend herself, and there are few who would defend her.
In Hell, there are no seasons. Just constant fire. Constant burning. But it’s cold on the paths of Salem, Massachusetts. The leaves have gone from the trees, and the bare branches now wear white, as does the forest floor. There are tracks in the snow, deer. She wonders for they can handle it. She’s freezing, as anyone so poorly dressed would be, but soon, she too will be covered with the snow that falls from trees already painted too heavily.
She moves forward, watching Salem continue it’s hustle and bustle. It’s as if they’ve just put the trials behind them, and want to move on with life. She thinks of Primera - causal destruction. How long until they turn against each other again? She heard about the trials, hid in the rafters for a few, surprised it lasted so long, that so many died. And yet they just walk on.
The people of Salem don’t seem to mind the snow. They’ve donned heavy wool clothing, and think nothing of it. It’s commonplace to them. They do not mourn the loss of flowers and beautiful foliage, or the sun. They lament nothing, for they have grown used to the seasons and prepared ahead for the casual destruction of the winter.
It begins with one snowflake, because one becomes two becomes a thousand becomes a million. The same way a whisper becomes a rumor becomes an accusation becomes a trial becomes hysteria. Casual destruction. ”The world moves on.” She remarks.