Her daughter is different, when she returns, when she rises once more above the ground and stands, whole and blinking, in the sun.

On the surface she is the same, skin unblemished and hair smooth, no trace of his touch staining her like a blight.

But a mother’s eye will see; the pale skin, bone white and dead chill; the eyes, haunted and huge and stark, and so winter becomes - a mourning, a tribute, a memory.