It's winter.

There is nothing more to know.

Where we are, in what era, in what fragment of the space-time continuum, is absolutely irrelevant. Just as it doesn't matter what these lands are called, whether they are ruled by a ruthless dictator or a forward-looking democracy, or left to their fate.

Imagine them as you prefer because, whatever form you decide, it will be part of the whole willed by the One. And as such in it Death will have perennial jurisdiction.

Only this is essential: a cold, cruel, white winter.

On the road the snow has accumulated abundantly since the early hours of the night and now, in this still hideously dark morning, it forms a uniform carpet almost impossible to cross. Yet a few footprints stain the immaculate mantle, small, close together, in some places deformed by slips and the wider, more irregular shapes of sudden falls.

Following these conspicuous traces would be easy for anyone to find their origin, but no one is crossing the square at this moment, just as no one will probably cross it in the next few hours.

It's a raging snowstorm.

Yet these footprints are here, albeit not for long, because their owner, as she does every morning, has embarked on the long walk that takes her from a poor suburban home to this square on the edge of the rich city center.

When she woke up, seeing the heavy snowfall, she would have gladly avoided this busy corner, knowing that few would venture out of the house, but her father was of the contrary opinion, and to avoid beatings she obeyed.

She is not even ten years old, but already three, at the first signs of cold, she positions herself on this square to sell small boxes of matches. These are precious objects, which she makes with her own hands during the warmer months, and which the rich show their appreciation for. She rarely comes back with an empty sack, and this is a blessing because she is the only one in the family who brings home the money needed to pay the rent and buy bread.

That's why her father, who barely pays for the pints of beer at the tavern with his own meager salary, doesn't let her skip a day, whether she's healthy or sick, in the sun, wind or snow. But today, in all honesty, it would have been wiser to keep her at home.

Because now the poor child, sitting on an icy pile of snow, clutches at the miserable rags with which she has covered herself, also veiled in a thick white blanket, and chattering her teeth, unable to control herself. Yet she stretches out her hand with the box of matches towards non-existent customers, while the blood now slows down in her slender body.

In short, what we are witnessing is certainly nothing new, the cruel fate that too often strikes the last, in any fragment of the space-time continuum. We are not surprised, therefore, that Death is hidden in a dark corner of the square, waiting for the Plot to be fulfilled and the Destiny of the child to come to an end.

"I knew you were waiting for me," says the child quietly, when she finally appears before her.

"I know," confirms Death. "But not for the reason you think I was waiting for you."

"What else, then?"

"To return what was taken from you. Come back and it will be as if I hadn't met you."

The little girl looks bewildered. "Back where?"

"To life."

"What life? I can't survive this blizzard."

"You will, because I'm not coming back for you today," Death replies seraphically.

"If I don't die today, I will tomorrow."

Death bends down to bring her skeletal face up to the child's height. "Today I choose to change your Destiny. If you do the same, we will not meet again for many more years."

The child seems hesitant, perhaps wanting to ask her how to do it, but she understands on her own that she must find that answer within herself.

"Freedom is free will, but there is no free will without freedom," Death greets her as she takes possession of her body again.

The little girl is shaken by a tremor and the snow covering her clothes falls to the ground. It was a bizarre dream, disturbing but reassuring at the same time.

She understands how useless and dangerous it is to stay in that square. She wraps herself better in her rags and sets off. For the first time she heads towards the city center along a new road.

Death, from a dark corner, watched her walk away, nodding at every single weak step.

"How are you feeling?" the Grim Rodent asks her, on the scene to collect several mice won by the stiffness of that night.

"Complete," Death replies, picking up her sickle again.

"Now what?"

"I'm afraid He was right, I could get used to this." She flanks her colleague and together they head towards the light. "I heard that despite everything, you didn't do so bad. If I need help now I know who to ask."

The Grim Rodent gives a shrug.

"If it helps keep you from going on vacation anymore," he sighs, disappearing into the otherworldly splendor.