Thawing Bluebird

​ Timothy Crocket hated his little town of Alton. If he wasn't yelling or glaring at his workers, he was looking over the snow covered town with malice in his heart. It was twilight. A cloud of steam rolled past the frosted window that mingled with the falling snow from an out of sight shaft on top of the building. This was a haven for Crocket— his entire life's work just behind him. He could see the steam dance, smell the coal burn, hear the metal clanging, and feel the heat rise up all in the comfort of his own office. He reclined back in his chair and grasped his black cane, tracing his boney finger along the glass ball on top of the long cylinder.
​ Crocket glanced over to his large, self-portrait hanging behind his desk. It was a slightly embellished version of him because he wasn't glaring, just judging. His peppered hair was neatly combed back, which was also rare to see since he always had a top hat on or some other headwear on. His favorite cane in hand was held out in front of him like a shepherd's crook. The most notable feature was the sullen face. It seemed like he hadn't eaten in a year, and that's something you can't paint over.
The frame was made of a thin layer of gold that shone a bright orange when the candles on his chandelier flickered. The room was filled with fine Rocco style furniture and plenty of bookshelves with dust covered books and trinkets in each one. The walls that weren't covered in in regal paintings had articles from the local newspaper in the next town over, seeing that Alton was still quite small. Nevertheless, Crocket had a rich life and a large company, that to some state was undeserving.
​ There was a sudden knock on the door behind him.
​ "Come in, this better be important," Crocket, adjusting himself in his seat, turned toward the window. A man no older that 20 walked in covered in soot, fumbling with his hat in his hands. He was lanky and pale with the only feature worth noting was his constant, shifting eyes.
​"H-Hello, Sir Crocket."
​"Hm, Edgar Jekyll, is it? All your voices are the same so I can't tell."
​ "Yes, Sir, that's me."
​"What is it then? Spit it out, I don't have all day to waste."
​ "Well, Sir, it's about, uh, a certain thing that, well—" Crocket slammed his cane to the ground which made Edgar jump.
​ "If you can't spit it out here, then don't bother at all. The last thing I need is a mindless youth like yourself saying nonsense they wouldn't understand. Now get back to work."
​"... Yes Sir, my apologies, Sir," Edgar quickly turned and left the room in a mist of tears.
​"Foolish children these days..." Crocket muttered under his breath. He rose up from his chair, clutching his cane as he dragged his bent legs over to the door. He stepped out onto a metal railing that looked over part of the factory workers making train spikes.
The men, sweating profusely and covered in soot, worked tirelessly in a rhythmical pattern to create and pass on a rail steak to the next worker. The heat, smoke, and steam emitting from the large vats of water and metal swirled up in drafts towards the ceiling and out a large stone pillar, one of many that lined the top of Steam, Steel, and Steaks.
​ Crocket loomed over the workers like a vulture on his perch, eyeing each one carefully and making note of who's pay to dock from lack of efficiency. He looked across the railing to see it covered in rust, a single nest laid on the side of staircase going up. His gaze then looked over at Edgar being comforted by his father, Harold Jekyll. Harold was a stout, clean shaven man who was taller than Edgar by only a few inches.
Edgar was in tears, sobbing, with his father giving him an understanding nod and pats on the back. Harold's small, squinted eyes gave a sympathetic look to him. The clanging of metal against anvil made it hard to hear what Edgar was saying, and the heat distorted the figures of the two. After a few minutes, Harold looked up to see Crocket shaking his head in disapproval. Harold hurried his son back to work and immediately went back to polishing the spikes.
​ Crocket, clenching his cane, turned and went along the whole line of the railing above the workers and inspected each corner of the building. He never cared how the parents of the time babied their children to such an extent that a grown man could and would cry.
​"Babies. Complete and utter children. Men here? Of course not," Crocket muttered as he passed the steamworks of his factory, "The parents themselves act like children and low and behold what they teach their own. Revolting."
​ Near the vats water, various hissing and spitting noises rose up with the steam as the molten spikes were placed in to cool. Edgar lifted a cold spike out of the water with a pair of tongs and held it towards his dad.
​"I'm really sorry dad," he sputtered out as he dropped the spike in a pile, "I tried doing what you said, but I just, I don't know, got flustered again." Harold looked up from polishing the spike at his son.
​ "It's alright, Ed. I know you can't help it."
​"But I was so sure that I could... Maybe I'm just not cut out for this. How can I get a writing job if I can't even say a word to someone without bawling my eyes out?"
​"It's not you, son. It's him," Harold looked up to see Crocket making his way across the railing, "He's crooked in more ways than one."
​"I thought it was just how he went about our work."
​"He has that cane for a reason, more than just to hit us of course. Back when me and him were kids, the class always called him Crooked Crocket— we didn't mean any harm. His legs got bent when he fell off that horse he spurred too hard."
​"That's... mean, don't you think?"
​"We were children. Besides, he acted as if everything was fine as he laughed it off. In my opinion, if you don't say it, then it's of no one's concern. That's why I'm helping you, son." Edgar gave his dad a smile.
​ "Thanks, dad."
​ "Just remember that worthless, vile, old miser up there can't dictate you."
​Crocket waddled up the side of a railing and made his way to the announcement platform. Despite it being right next to his office, Crocket wanted to gauge the efficiency of his workers before making the daily announcement, hoping to add a dash of mockery into them. He stood in front of the pulpit and pulled a rope next to it which rang a large set of copper bells in the rafters of the factory. The bells bashed and clanged which echoed throughout the factory. The workers dropped everything and looked toward the pulpit while a few moved into view from behind the pillars. All became silent besides the rustling of carriages and chatter of crowds outside the factory.
​"It seems to me, that there is a lack of discipline amongst you. Now I know it is not your jobs to wage your fellow steamer's worth based on the work that they do, nor is it your job to correct them as they do so. I, however, see that to those that it is your jobs to discipline your own youth— it is lacking. Greatly lacking. To the point where I question your abilities as a parent. Now, for the youth who disregard what your elders or as of what I say, you are lucky I haven't caught you yet."
​ Down in the crowd, Harold was visibly in a fit of rage. He wasn't doing anything nor was he saying anything. Harold wasn't the kind of man to show such emotions. He was staring back up at the fragile mass of Crocket, completely red in the face. Before Crocket could salute his workers off, Harold quickly stormed past the crowd of workers and out a side door, leaving it swaying snow in. Crocket grinned with delight as he signed off from the announcement and hobbled back towards his office. Edgar sat there picking up the tools his father had left there and proceeded to work along with the rest of the workers.
​ Crocket entered his office, leaving the door open to let the heat in. Moving on over to the set of newspaper articles on the wall, he set his cane in a belt loop of his pants. He took his finger up and laid it on an article that read "Steam, Steel, and Steaks Make Alton Rich."
​"Those journalists at Pressburgh do know how to make it sound so splendid," Crocket giggled as he read over the text.
​"Lets see... 'Steam, Steel, and Steaks serves the purpose as Alton's major source of income and job opportunities...' Now where is it. Ah yes, 'It is a transportation business, as it name references, in all steam powered steel machines and train spikes. Owner Timothy Crocket wanted the later portion to be included to spite someone who told him he'd be less useful than a train spike...' Well, who's useless now, Harold? I have the whole town in the palm of my hands, and you have absolutely nothing." After Crocket muttered that phrase, something felt off around him.
He looked around the room seeing if something was out of place. He thought maybe someone took something of his, knowing how some of his workers were. His shelves, books, trinkets, and furniture were all there. Nothing was missing. He paused and took a deep breath to clear his head. It didn't smell like anything now— there wasn't the stench of copper, steel, or soot permeating in the room. His office was oddly lukewarm now. It wasn't a good lukewarm feeling as if after the cold passed. It was like there was no cold nor heat there. He paused and noticed nothing was making any noise either. It was dead silent besides his breathing and feet sliding across the floor.
"Those lazy, incompetent, naive, egotistical fools decide all to take a break now? I marked their times to do exactly not this!" Crocket angrily waddled across the floor to the door, taking his cane out of the belt loop and shaking it angrily. He tried opening the door more but it would not budge either way he pushed or pulled.
"And I told these nimrods to fix this blasted thing— now it won't move at all," he huffed as he force himself through the crack he had left open for himself. He squeezed out and clambered over to the side rail. He bashed his cane against the hard metal that echoed throughout the halls.
"Get to work, you idiots! I ought to fire each and every one of y—" Crocket saw all of his workers there completely frozen. He stood there for what seemed to be a few minutes, just staring. He shook his head.
"Oh, I get it. That's quite the stunt you all are pulling. First my door and now this."
No reply.
"... Well I won't have any more of it. Hurry up and get back to your duties."
Nothing.
Crocket stood there flabbergasted. His men never disobeyed him before. Clenching his cane, he stomped down the stairwell and toward the frozen workers.
"I don't know if you fools heard me, but I'll say it again. Get back to work!"
He looked over his men who weren't even swaying as they stood still. It didn't seem like they were breathing either. Crocket quickly looked about and laid his gaze on Edgar. He waddled past the figures until he reached him.
"Now I know you set all of them up to do this, Jekyll. I should have known I should've let you rot on the curb your father dragged you from. More so I should have let the two of you to freeze out there."
Edgar sat motionless, looking down at a tool his father left as he held a tong near the water. He held a sorrowful gaze toward the door his father stormed out from.
"Jekyll, do you hear me? Answer me, you incompetent moron!" With that, Crocket lifted the bottom end of his cane up and smacked it against Edgar's head. With the same amount of force, the cane bounced back, hitting off Crocket's hat and making him lose balance. He fell with a hard thud and looked up at Edgar. His gaze still on the door, motionless as if he hadn't been hit. Crocket was in complete shock. Putting his hat back on, he slowly got up and touched Edgar's shoulder. He was hard as a rock. He wasn't even breathing. Crocket looked down at the water in the vat and saw it was frozen mid splash.
"What's... What's going on here?" Crocket spat out. "What's going on?"
He looked around more and saw various tools floating mid air as they were being tossed from one worker to the next. Flames from the bellowing ovens were frozen in various strands as men held their arms up to block out the light. Beads of sweat falling off of the men were suspended in air in frozen droplets. Crocket grazed his finger against the beads. They swayed and eventually rested to their original position. There was nothing making a noise, nothing was warm, nothing was doing anything, except for Crocket.
He stumbled over and sat on the railing he walked down and stared at the scene before him. He was in utter shock and disbelief. This defied every law of nature, every law of anything that Crocket knew. Were they dead? Were they stuck? Was this a dream? All these and more raced through Crocket's mind. He turned and looked over at the ajar door Harold had left open. Crocket sprung up and ran as fast as his feeble legs could to the door and stuck his head out. The whole town held the same fate.
Innumerable snowflakes were suspended in air as it masked a clear view of the little town. Smoke and steam from his factory held stationary overhead along with a bluebird in flight, a sharp hue against the grey backdrop. Children in the road were frozen in their fun of snowball fights and tiddlywinks, their cheeks and noses still rosey red. Adults of all sizes were stopped in their trek of the town as their store bags and hats waited for motion to commence. Horses, as still as statues, lined the side of the road, oats fallen mid air from their meals. It was as if Crocket was looking at a photograph. He turned his head to the side of his factory and saw Harold.
Harold was sitting down on a wooden pallet with his hands folded. His face was still red but no other sign of emotion could be found in his eyes. A thin cloud of steam was suspended out of his mouth. Crocket squeezed himself out from behind the door and stood outside next to him.
He stood there for a time and slumped down next to Harold on the hard planks. He gazed out across the town.
"Everyone. It's everyone. Everyone, thing, is like this. Even you, Harold. Out of everyone, I'm still here. You're here, but you're... Like that. Everyone's here. Every stupid idiot is here. Every. Why do I bother talking to you? You're not going to say anything."
Crocket sat there next to Harold. He lost track of how long it was, though time likely couldn't be tracked here. He just sat there and stared. A time or two he got up and wandered across the town. He would push away the snowflakes stuck in the air and would walk towards the crowds. He would gently brush his cane against every person, animal, and item, all still solid as a rock. The snow on the ground, though seeming soft, was stonelike as well and never gave way to Crocket's proding.
"Please, just someone talk. Something move? Please?"
Nothing would, and eventually Crocket would sit back down next to Harold. Eventually after trekking more and more, he would sit by a neighboring bridge.
The bridge was covered in the hard snow, only revealing in a few locations of the large stone underneath it that held it up. Below it was a river of water with waves frozen, clashed against the riverbed and the bridge itself. Crocket would occasionally spear the water's edge with his cane, only to have it bounce back at him. He would sit on top of the bridge, staring down at the jagged waves below him. Eventually he started to lean further and further toward the edge at each visit, gazing down at the jagged waves below.
Crocket sat on the edge of the bridge, gazing at the land around him. From where he was, he could make out the south side of Alton. Clouds hung in the air and were mingled with the stretches of steam that rose up in bursts around the town. It was still hazy with the suspended snowflakes, but the red and browns of the buildings could still be made out. Against the white backdrop, the town stuck out sharp. Far off he could see his towering stone cylinders of his factory, once billowing out smoke and steam. Crocket craved for the stench of his factory's metals and soot, and even the earthy, moist mud the river produced. He slowly looked back down at the river.
"Nothing is here. It's here, but not. I'm stuck. There's no way out." Crocket loomed over the edge of the bridge, noting the hazards that laid under him.
"Of course there is, Crocket," a gentle voice flowed from behind him. Crocket quickly jolted around to see a tall, black man in a white robe with both a long, piercing white beard and hair on his head that almost touched the ground. The man smiled. "I'm sorry if I scared you, Timothy."
Crocket didn't say a word.
"Where are my manners, I should introduce myself. You can call me MacDonald."
"MacDonald... " Crocket spat out.
"Yes, that is I. And you're little Tim."
"Timothy Crocket."
"Of course, my apologies."
"How do you know my name?"
"Well, I know a lot of things. Not as much as the Man Upstairs, but you can understand that. No one is or ever will be."
"Are you some sort of preacher?"
"No, Tim- Crocket. I'm not. Really, I have nothing to do with your faith directly. Maybe after this, who knows though."
"What does— are you some angel then? Gabriel, on earth, to set me on the path of righteousness? Hah— like you'd up there would."
"No, not him. I do have chats with him a time or two, but I am no angel. I am MacDonald."
Crocket turned fully around and jumped on the ground, using his cane as a brace. "Chats with the angels? I guess the reason you're in this state then is because you're on my opposite spectrum— you're a babbling idiot."
"Actually, you're here because of me." MacDonald smiled, turning to look at Alton. "It's a nice town, nice people in it. Maybe more trees— the evergreen kind would be nice to see."
"You? You did this?" Crocket clenched his cane and flailed it around, "For how long I was in here you didn't bother to fix it or in the least come to me before?"
"Well, I can fix it. But you need to as well, Crocket. I think those buildings over there could use a nice paint job and a flower bed, don't you think?"
"Me? What is there to fix? I'm no miracle maker— you're the one who talks to angels, not me."
"Yourself, Crocket." MacDonald turned to look at Crocket with pity on his face. Wrinkles covered the man so much that his eyes were covered from view. "You need to fix you."
"Oh don't tell me your something from that new Dickens' book— any of those good feelings books are a curse alone."
"They told Scrooge that to have a good life to change. After, Scrooge could do as he pleased with his knowledge. Have I said that in this case?"
Crocket said nothing. MacDonald gave a reassuring smile.
"You're hurt, Crocket; this I know. Any other way would not have helped you."
"Well maybe if you came up to me and just said something before ruining my business, then I would have considered your notions."
"We both know you wouldn't have, Crocket."
Crocket shook his head and laughed. "We all know this is just some dream then. I must have dozed off and I've just been stuck here. Hell, you're just a figment of my imagination— that's why you know me so well. No one knows me better than me."
"I know a lot more than simply you, Crocket. I'll show you, follow me. The first is soon over the bridge." MacDonald turned and began to walk toward the factory.
"Please, there's nothing you can show me that can change my mind— it's all a dream and when I wake up—" Crocket tripped over a stone, landing on his arm. A small jolt of pain surged through his arm as he cradled it.
MacDonald turned back and shook his head. "There's the first. Pain isn't prevalent in this kind of dream, no?"
"What does that mean, neanderthal?" Crocket cursed under his breath.
"If you were lucid dreaming— but wait you wouldn't know that term yet..." MacDonald put his hand under his beard and twirled it with his fingers, mumbling to himself. "Ah, so say if you knew you were dreaming, you would be able to control that pain, no?"
"I guess?"
"Then why is it still hurting you? Why not make it stop by ignoring it?"
"Well... That's easier said than done."
"Hm. That's true." MacDonald held out his hand to Crocket and helped him up. "But what about everything else?"
"What does that mean?"
"The snow, the people, the clouds— surely if you were dreaming you could make them move, no?"
"Well, no—"
"But you are aware you are supposedly dreaming. You have reign in this land then."
Crocket thought a moment.
"Exactly," MacDonald smiled, "Come now, there's more to show."
The two walked back into town, all the while MacDonald praised its comfort and joyfulness of a small village. Crocket studied the man more as they walked. Despite his old appearance and tone, MacDonald had a pep in his being at everything he did. He saw the brighter things in everything, even if it was something simple like a mailbox.
"Now see, if all of the boxes had new paint jobs, they wouldn't rust so much. They'd look nicer for the town too." MacDonald twirled the flag of a box as they walked by.
"Why do you care so much about this place? Clearly you don't live here, I would have known a person of your... Being was around. Especially with how you make yourself up." Crocket rubbed his cane against his coat, polishing the glass orb on it.
"Everything should be nice. It'll never be that way without intervention, but it's good to dream on the good things that can happen. How you think it should be, in other words."
"Dreaming gets people nowhere. Action is the only means of reality."
"Exactly my point, Crocket. Dreaming is just that— a dream. Reality is what is there before you. What you make up."
"Where's this getting to? I would have thought you would have said 'No, it's actually this'."
"I'm agreeing with you. Same as with my second point, you made up your own reality, Crocket. You built all of this." MacDonald raised his hand to outline Steam, Steel, and Steaks. "All of this you made. But how?"
"With money."
"Kinda. You also used your men. You breathed your reality to them to make your plans."
"Your point is?"
"I know more about your men than you have accumulated in your entire life."
"That I highly doubt."
"Take Harold over there," MacDonald stopped and pointed to the hunched over figure still sitting red in the face, "that man has been through more than you can ever imagine."
"Sure, of course he has, such a hard life to work in a simple factory."
"He had a wife, Crocket. Had. That's the reason why his son works for you now. He has to look after him."
"Really? That brute having a wi—" MacDonald quickly shoved a piece of paper in Crocket's face.
It was a photo of a happy, young couple with a young boy, who couldn't be older than 3. The man was stout, like Harold, as he held his bouncing baby boy, who looked rather thin for his age. The wife, who seemed rather pale, sat near them laughing. If photos could make a sound, this one would bellow with laughter and giggles.
"That's Ruth. She's been gone awhile now. That's Harold and Edgar— of course they're younger here but they were here nonetheless."
"Come now, we all know you could have made all of that up and somehow created that yourself."
"Check what he has in his hands. You'll see." MacDonald walked next to Harold, arms folded behind his back. Crocket made his way over to Harold and looked down at his callous hands.
In them was a small locket- not that big and not that shiny. A small, torn wire dangled off the side of it. In it was two pictures, one of Edgar, that looks like it had been taken recently, and one of a woman. It was an old faded photo but her thin, pale figure could still be made out. MacDonald held the photo back to Crocket.
"It's Ruth, is it not?"
"She looks... Sickly here."
"That's because she was."
Crocket looked back at Harold's face. Still red as it was before, but with a hint of sorrow. Harold was gazing at the picture of his late wife. His eyes had a slight glimmer in them. His eyes and nose were puffy from both the cold and him holding back his tears. Harold was a strong man, but even strong men have bluebirds in their hearts.
"It's a hard life to live, Crocket," MacDonald broke the silence, "Having people like you around doesn't help."
"Do you really think it's just that easy, don't you?" Crocket turned his head away. "That one little thing can change a man for the good?"
"Of course not—"
"Then why bother with me? You know I'm not going to change for any man or thing. So what if he's in the pits of his life? He deserved it."
"You won't change for anything, yes. I know. But, you have more to you than you're letting out, Crocket. I know how you are, remember? Since 'this is all a dream' as you claim."
"No, you don't."
"So you're saying this is not a dream?"
"It is a dream... You're just some, odd, something or other. I don't know."
MacDonald shook his head. "You know the truth, Crocket. It's the only way out of this."
"Well then tell me! There's nothing for either of us to lose if this just ends."
"You're still not understanding what you need to do. I told you, you need to change."
"Like that makes anything clearer—" Crocket clutched his cane, "You did this, you fix it. There is no way I am ever going to change from who I am."
"We both know that's a lie."
Crocket slammed his cane on the hard snow in anger and stomped back towards the bridge. "Who is he to say who I am? He doesn't know a single thing— he's just a blooming idiot."
After reaching the bridge, Crocket sat on the ground and folded his arms. He sat there giving MacDonald every insulting name he could think of. He leaned back and lied down, looking up at the clouds above.
"You do know this would be easier if you wouldn't storm off like that?" a voice asked. Crocket turned his head to see MacDonald sitting on top of the bridge, looking down at him.
"Well, what did you think would happen after you insulted me like that?"
"I apologize, Crocket. I didn't mean to. I was stating the facts."
"The facts are that you keep me here to torment me. That is all."
"You know that's not true. Crocket, I know how you really are. We both do. Why don't you show it?"
"Why? Why? Why should I? Nothing good ever came out of me showing 'I cared' about people."
"That's because you didn't try hard enough."
"Oh I didn't? Tell me how."
"You're still holding onto baggage that was long dead long ago. You took those small things to heart those people said. That's what's wrong."
Nothing but silence was exchanged between the two. What felt like minutes passed without a single noise from the two. Crocket stared up at the clouds and snowflakes. They were like constellations against a miner's Sunday shirt. He didn't want to think about what MacDonald said. He did anyway. As the kept looking at the snowflakes, he kept making connections to his own life. The bluebird wanted out.
"It's not that easy to brush it all off," Crocket broke the silence.
"Yes, it's hard for a lot of people. But what those people say doesn't make up who you are." MacDonald slid off the side of the bridge and sat next to Crocket.
"Like 'Crooked Crocket' doesn't suit me."
"You make who you are, Crocket. What they say is nothing to who you really are."
"I suppose so."
"I see it this way, the foundation doesn't make the house what it is to people. It may be in shambles but mean everything to someone. It may be as strong as fort but mean nothing to someone. You're the house."
"But a sturdy house is better than one in shambles."
"You're not getting the point, Crocket. Let me put it another way... A bird isn't just for it's looks. Some take it for companionship, for racing, for whatever reason. A bird's worth is only to what people see to use it for, not for what it truly is."
"A bird that wants to be a bird."
"Exactly, Crocket."
"But still, why should I change? In the case of you- why are you even here? Why did you do this?"
"I want to help people, Crocket. I really do. I saw you needed help. So here I am."
"But why me?"
"Well, I try to help all that I can. I'm not all powerful, Crocket."
"But out of all the people you could choose, out of all those that need your help, why me?"
"I think it's because I know you want to help too, Crocket. This isn't you— your facade isn't the real Timothy Crocket."
"How are you so sure about that?"
MacDonald chuckled. "Trust me, Crocket, I know."
Crocket sat up and looked at MacDonald. "But how do you know?"
MacDonald thought a second and smiled. "A bluebird told me."
"No, really, how do you know?"
"Well, let's just say I know enough about chess to look well in advance of everything that comes my way. Almost as if it's easy to see what's to come next."
"Intuition?"
"I suppose you can call it that. Now, don't you think it's time to go?"
"Go? What do you mean?"
"What have you wanted to do since this had happened to you? 'I'm Crocket and I want this to end of my accord'." MacDonald stood up and looked back on the town. "I bet all the birds will be happy to fly again."
Crocket leapt to his feet. "Wait, but there's so much more I need to ask! So much more to, to, to, I don't know, to talk about."
"What's said is said, and what's done is done, Timothy."
"But you know so much—"
"Not much more than you or anyone else here." MacDonald began to walk down the side of the bridge as Crocket followed.
"But you know I'm going to change— well of course I told you, but before you knew— you even knew about Harold and Edgar. You knew about what I went through! You—"
"So do you."
Crocket hurried his pace to keep next to MacDonald, dragging his cane behind him as it battered against the hard ground. "But there's more I need to ask!"
"Those are things you will find out with time, Crocket."
"But can you—"
"Of course I can guarantee it, Crocket."
"See you knew—"
"I know what you're asking because it is predictable, Crocket. Anyone wondering what is to come next will ask such things."
"Will we ever see eachother agian though? What about if something like this happens again? What if—"
"If it happens Crocket, it will. The bluebirds don't worry about what they may eat, drink, or gain of tomorrow. Why worry what is to come next? If fall comes, it will come."
"But—"
Tripping over an unseen rock, Crocket fell forward towards the ground. Bracing himself for the hard snow, he heard MacDonald utter a single sentence.
"You have changed, Crocket."
Crocket fell face first into the soft, cold pile before him. A sudden wave of senses flooded into his system as he sat there still. The crowds from within the town in front of him chattered as the flapping and singing of birds could be heard near the babbling river behind him. The snow on his face made him jolt back with a chill that ran down his spine. He could smell the metal and smoke of his factory and he rubbed his eyes to get the snow away from them. He looked up at the down he loved dearly. It was twilight. A thick wet snow was slowly twirling around the newly lightened street lamps, and laid in soft thin layers on roofs, on horses' backs, on people's shoulders and hats.