Hansel couldn’t see. The world was full of white.
No other color existed in this world.
Color existed in that other world. The world where Gretel died.
Brown. So many shades of brown. Black. Orange.
But none of those colors were here.
Hansel kept running. Much to his surprise, there was a texture and a taste to the whiteness. Soft. Powdery. Sweet.
Sweet as honey.
Sweet as sugar.
Sweet and cold, the whiteness fell on his arms, his hands, his fingers, his feet. It flecked his face. It froze and thawed on his tongue and in his breath. Every breath.
And still she called to him.
Her voice was oats in milk. It was buried deep in sugar and honey and delicate snow. Calling to him. Beckoning to him.
And, for several sharp gasps and stuttered heartbeats, he saw her.
Just a moment.
Just a glimpse.
Just out of reach.
Shrouded in white.
So much white.
But he knew it was her.