**The Shadow of the Gypsy on White Snow**
The crisp, icy air of January seemed to have soaked in forever the scent of burning candles from the Christmas tree and the bitter tang of Mums unchecked tears. The last days in the city had blurred into a single, painful frame. Alicethat was the girls name nowhadnt even made it to the school carnival. Mum, through trembling hands and tear-streaked cheeks, had still been sewing her a costume of the Mistress of the Copper Mountain, stitching green glass beads onto a dress that shimmered like real emeralds. But the celebration never happened. Instead, there was only the endless, rocking journey on the train, snow-covered fields stretching beyond the window like a giant quilt, and a frozen lump of sorrow lodged beneath her ribs.
Dad he just stopped being. Not physically, no. He simply dissolved, vanished from their lives as if he had never existed. And then came Granhis motherher face sharp and hard as an axe. Her words carved into Alices memory forever, precise, honed, lethal: *”We only put up with you for our sons sake. A tree must be felled clean. Off you go back to your village, where you came from. Hell pay child support, but thats it. No contact. None.”*
And so they stoodon the snow-dusted village square before Grans crooked but cosy cottage. They unloaded their meagre belongings under the scrutiny of dozens of prying eyes. The neighbours. They had come out as if for a spectacle. Some watched with silent, sour sympathy. Others barely concealed their biting glee. Alice remembered, from Mums stories, how these same people had once fawned over the “city girl” who had married well. Now, all they saw was a fallen woman, cast down from her pedestal.
The holidays ended in a flash. The new school greeted her with icy silence and sharp, assessing stares. She was an outsider. A white crow in a city dress, with ribbons that now seemed absurdly naive. The girls, a cackling flock of ravens, pounced on the novelty at once.
“Look at Pinocchio in a skirt!” came a shrill laugh. “Legs like matchsticks!”
Alice shrank, willing herself invisible, but their stares burned right through her.
After school, the torment continued. The pristine, powdery snow that had seemed so inviting that morning had turned into a weapon. Hard-packed snowballs, moulded with hate, flew at her from all sides. Each strike was precise, cruel, stealing her breath and dragging treacherous tears to her eyes. She dropped to her knees, shielding her head, ready to dissolve into the snowdrift.
Thensuddenlythe jeers turned to shouts of pain and fear.
“Bomb ’em, city girl! Come on!” A bright, reckless voice rang over her head.
She lifted her tear-streaked face. A boy stood in front of her, shielding her from the onslaught. He packed and hurled snowballs with such speed and fury that the bullies scattered like leaves.
“Run! Its the Gypsy!”
He turned to her. And yes, he did look like a gypsy from a storybookdark skin, wild black curls escaping from an old woolly hat, and eyes like burning coals, alive with mischief. He tried to act tough, hands on hips, gaze defiant, but the smile tugging at his lips was achingly kind.
“Youre the one from the city, right? Im Max. Short for Maximilian. Stop crying, or theyll come back. From now on, youre under my protection. No one touches you again.”
He said it with such solemn, rehearsed importanceclearly something hed heard somewhere and saved for this momentthen immediately flushed under his dark skin, embarrassed by his own dramatics.
That was how their friendship began. Max wasnt actually a gypsy; the nickname stuck because of his looks. They were startlingly alike, devouring books from the creaky, musty village library. Max had already torn through Jules Verne and Jack London. Their shared obsession was adventure. Theyd sit for hours on a hill overlooking the Thames, letting the wind whip their faces as they watched barges drift toward the unknown. They whispered dreamshe wanted to sail the world in his own ship; she wanted to sing on a grand stage, her voice carrying across the ocean.
Years passed. Childhood friendship melted into something deeper, tender and profound. His father bought him a motorbike, and it became their ticket to freedom. They raced down country lanes, wind screaming in their ears, her arms tight around his waist as she whooped with joy. They fished at distant lakes, picked strawberries in the woods, rode to “the edge of the world,” as they called it.
“Alice, youre blinding today. Prettier than yesterday,” hed say, pretending to look away but stealing glances. “Just stay away from those city boys. Theyre drawn to you like nails to a magnet.”
“Max, is that jealousy talking?” shed laugh, her heart singing at his awkward words.
And how could he not be jealous? The ugly duckling had become a swan. Her voicerich, velvet, powerfulfilled the village hall at every concert. She won the county talent show. There was a magic in her now, a glow: her plain grey eyes turned vivid green, her walk light and sure. And he he stayed the same, just “Gypsy” Max, who felt clumsy and ordinary beside her.
Then came that sweltering, dusty June. Exams were done. All that remained was collecting their certificates and heading to the city for university. They both dreamed of journalism, imagined studying together. That day, Alice had her final rehearsal before graduation, while Max ran an errand for a neighboura quick trip to town for medicine. He never said no to anyone.
On his way back, the sky split open in a biblical downpour. Lightning tore through the clouds, thunder shook the earth, and the rain fell so thick he could barely see his own hands.
Alice was finishing her last song when a primal dread seized her. Something was wrong. The air crackled with disaster. She couldnt breathe.
Then the door to the hall crashed open. A classmate stood there, drenched, wild-eyed, sobbing.
“Max Alice, Max” She choked on her tears. “The rain he couldnt see the lorryhe didnt stop”
The world didnt fade. It shattered. Into a million jagged shards. Sound vanished. There was only silence inside her and a scream, raw and endless, that she couldnt hear.
There was no graduation. Only a black dress, a coffin the size of her universe, and silence. She never sang again. Her voice had died with him.
Every evening, like clockwork, she went to him. The cemetery became their new meeting place. There, under rustling leaves or crunching snow, she talked to him for hoursabout her day, about Mum, about how much she missed him. She exhausted herself reliving that day, searching for the moment she could have changed itstopped him, made him wait out the storm, calleda futile, torturous ritual.
Years passed. University, then work. She became a brilliant journalist, then editor-in-chief at the regional broadcaster. Success, respect, money. She had everything. And nothing. The emptiness never left.
Once, years later, she asked her mothergrey-haired and worn by the twin blows of her husbands abandonment and the loss of the boy shed loved like a son
“Mum, why doesnt time heal? Hes still with me. I feel him every second. He wont let go.”
Her mother looked at her with infinite sadness.
“Sweetheart, maybe its you who wont let *him* go.”
After a long, leaden winter, spring came at last. Sunlight warmed her face as she walked home from work, taking an unfamiliar turn through a quiet neighbourhood. Then
“Gypsy, over here! Go on!”
Her heart stopped. Blood roared in her ears. Slowly, afraid to scare the vision away, she turned.
On a patch of grass, a football game raged. At its centrea dark-haired boy of about eleven. He weaved through defenders, struck the ball with terrifying precision, and sent it rocketing into a makeshift goal.
Alice leaned against the cold iron railing, not daring to move. The boy noticed her stare. Their eyes metjust for a secondbefore she looked away and hurried off.
But the next day, she returned. And the day after. She hid behind old oak trees, drinking in his features. She learned the three-storey building nearby was a childrens home. Her heart ached with a fragile, painful hope.
One evening, she arrived late. The pitch was empty. Dusk thickened. Disappointed, she turned to leavethen saw him. He stood at the far edge of the fence, fingers gripping the wire mesh, watching her. Waiting.
“I thought you werent coming today,” he said softly.
Alices breath caught.
“Lets get acquainted. Im Alice. And you?”
“Maximilian. But everyone calls me Max. And no, I
