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It had been nearly a hundred years since Jack had woken up in the middle of a lake.
One hundred years.
Jack had seen humanity begin to improve by leaps and bounds over the hundred years.
And still, despite it all, his name was nothing more than a vague legend.
Jack Frost.
That was his name.
It was the name the Man in the Moon had given him when he knew nothing else. When he didn’t even know who he was, he had been given a name.
And still, despite all of his efforts no one ever saw Jack. They always went through him like he never existed. They never knew his name.
The only respite that Jack got was when he met other spirits like him. Jack rarely saw them and even when he did, they typically vanished within moments of seeing him.
It has been so long since he has felt someone else’s warmth. Or any warmth at all. His body was as cold as the winters he brings.
Even in the middle of summer, at his weakest, in the middle of the day, Jack felt no warmth. His body was always as cold as death.
But now it was winter again. Jack brought snow wherever he went. And for some reason, every season he came back here. To the town he awoke near.
Jack couldn’t describe it. It was like something about this place was calling to him.
It was like something was begging to be known. Some unknown part of him was calling out, pleading to be heard.
Jack always returned to the lake. He had awoken in the middle of the lake, rising to see the full moon beaming down upon him. It must be important to him somehow, but Jack couldn’t remember. Jack couldn’t remember anything at all.
Jack landed on the surface of the lake, the water rippling underneath his feet. While his body may be cold, he still couldn’t feel the coldness of the water either.
Even as frozen fractals started forming on the surface of the lake, spreading out in intricate patterns, Jack remained unfeeling.
Jack watched as the frost spread across the surface of the lake, dancing across, freezing the water solid. The ice slowly started thickening and hardening. Beneath his feet a sheet of thick, tough ice formed.
Jack landed himself on top of the ice, allowing his feet to lay flat. He leaned on his staff.
He watched as snowflakes began to fall, thick clouds slowly forming over the sleepy town.
The people would likely be waking up soon anyway. They tended to wake up in the middle of the night for an hour or two and then head back to sleep.
And it was nearly midnight.
Jack cast a look up at the moon. The moon glowed bright. It was a full moon tonight.
Jack let himself slide down, hands slowing his descent as he sat down on the ice. He put his staff across his lap, sitting cross-legged on top of the ice.
Jack looked away from the moon, looking down at his wrist. There, very thin white lines decorated his wrist.
His finger ran along his wrist, caressing the lines, counting the years that had gone by.
He didn’t look up. He could almost feel the disappointment coming from above.
It was quiet. The only sound was that of the wind and soft snowfall. Jack couldn’t even hear himself breathe. Because he couldn’t. A corpse couldn’t breathe just like it couldn’t bleed.
Sometimes Jack wondered if he was a corpse or if he was a ghost. He didn’t know.
Maybe he was a ghost. From what he’d overheard from the kids’ spooky stories, every part of him was ghost-like. From the intangibility to the coldness. It all pointed at him being a ghost.
And yet some part of him screamed at him. That he wasn’t a ghost. He was a corpse forever frozen in time.
Jack wasn’t sure how to feel about it. To have one definitive thing and it was this, the surety that he was, in fact, a corpse.
Jack looked down at his fingernails. He might have to sharpen them again if he wanted to commemorate another year passing, another decade flying by. Maybe he should do something special for a century.
Jack looked up at the moon.
Soft swirls of snowflakes partially obscured his vision, but he could still see the moon peeking out through the clouds.
He could almost feel the sadness pushing down on him, cracking the ice underneath him.
Jack stood up, pressing lightly against the ice, reinforcing it, frost spreading outwards. It hadn’t been cracked in the first place. And yet some deeply ingrained part of Jack demanded that the lake be frozen solid.
He cast one last look up at the moon.
He looked down at the village, seeing some lamps on. The lamps stood out against the black background of darkness, the moonlight dimming as the moon was slowly covered by swollen clouds.
Jack turned and left, heading into the forest. No one would be in the forest. No one would see him. Not that they ever did. They won’t even see the snow fall in the forest. All they’ll see is the snow pile up around their houses.
Jack stepped into the forest. It was at times like this that he wish he could sleep. To pass away the hours blissfully unaware. That he could do anything a regular human seems to enjoy doing.
But one thing ultimately kept him going. Something, deep in the back of his mind, told him to persist. To not end it all now. He could. But he didn’t.
That was a promise Jack had made to himself. A vow. That he would always keep going, no matter what. His scars were more for decoration these days, a way of marking the passage of time as his body had long since stagnated, frozen in eternal youth.
Jack would one day make someone believe in him. Of that, he was certain. It was a matter of believing in himself first.