I found a new book. It was left behind by a boy not older than me, one of the quiet ones who used to eat with his head bowed and didn't mind if his coat sleeves were too short. He was adopted last week.
A man and a woman came for him—both thin and gray-eyed and dressed in matching brown coats. They didn't speak much, but they held his hand tightly when they left. I hadn't known his name. I never asked. But when I passed his bed the day after he was gone, I saw the book tucked under the blanket.
It was thick, but soft. Edges curled. The cover was peeling, and the spine was cracked in places, but the drawings were beautiful. Hand-inked. Colored in some places. Blank in others. It wasn't a storybook. Not exactly. It was a coloring book. About the Four Nymphs. There wasn't a proper title. Just a faded inscription on the inside cover, barely legible in smudged ink: "To see the year is to see the self."
Each of the Nymphs looked over a part of the year—the Four Seasons—each with their own voice and gifts. They weren't like the saints the Matron read about at Church, with their perfect posture and eyes always lifted toward something holy. These Nymphs were wild-looking. Barefoot, long-haired, tangled in leaves and water and mist. Their names weren't written anywhere. Just the seasons they ruled.
I turned the pages slowly, careful not to crack the already-weakened spine. The first was Spring—the Youngest. She had curls like vines and wide eyes like blooming petals. Her dress was stitched from green moss and flower buds. She sat on a fallen tree, smiling at a fox curled at her feet. Her hands were raised, palms full of light and pollen, and the trees behind her were just beginning to wake.
It said she watched over three months: Vernalis, the Month of Awakening, when the ground began to breathe again; Bloomhallow, the Month of Growth, when the flowers pushed through and the birds returned; and Emberdawn, the Month of Rising Flame, when the winds shifted and fire returned to the heart of the land.
The drawing of Emberdawn wasn't finished. The sun in the background was just sketched lines. I found a piece of charcoal later and filled it in slowly, letting the smudge get on my fingers.
The next Nymph was Summer—the Oldest. Her hair was long and golden, like sunlight melting across a field. She stood in a river, up to her knees, surrounded by floating lilies. She held a bowl of flame and a bowl of water, one in each hand. Her dress was woven from sunlight and salt, glittering even in ink.
She ruled over Solsticeveil, the Month of the Longest Day, when the sun refused to sleep; Seastride, the Month of Tides, when the water spoke loudest; and Goldfall, the Month of Plenty, when fields swelled with fruit and the sky smelled like wheat.
She reminded me of Evelune in a strange way—something quiet and bright, not because she demanded it, but because it followed her.
Then came Fall—the Second Oldest, with a face like dusk and hair braided with feathers and ash. She was draped in a coat of storm clouds, and her fingers crackled with threads of lightning. She stood in a field of turning leaves, a crow on her shoulder, her eyes half-closed like she was always listening for something only she could hear.
The pages said she ruled Emberwane, the Month of Turning Leaves, when the trees began to bleed orange; Duskwither, the Month of Twilight, when shadows stretched long and the air thickened with smoke; and Mourndusk, the Month of Silence, when even the wind went still and everything waited.
Her page had smudges near the corner. Someone else had colored in the crow, deep black with flecks of white. They hadn't finished the storm clouds. I almost did, but I liked them half-drawn. They looked like they were still moving.
And finally, there was Winter—the Second Youngest. She was seated on a throne made of ice, her hair a curtain of stars. Around her, the air shimmered with stillness. Her eyes were closed, not in sleep, but in thought. A single snowflake hovered above her open palm.
Beneath her feet, roots coiled like sleeping serpents, frozen but waiting. She wore no shoes. Her feet rested directly on the frost. Winter didn't hold fire or water or lightning. She held wishes. The notes beneath her drawing said her gift was granting what the world dared not speak aloud.
Her season included Starhallow, the Month of Starlight, when everything was soft and slow and glowed in the dark; Solvenreach, the Month of the Sun's Return, when warmth came back little by little; and Frostmourn, the Month of Reflection, when the sky was clearest and everyone had to look inward.
The words made my chest ache. Frostmourn had just ended not long ago. I had lived that entire month with Evelune's sleeping form curled beside me and the knowledge that one day I'd have to let her go. Now I was in Vernalis, the first month of Spring. The Month of Awakening.
The book said this was when the heart remembered what it meant to be full. When roots stretched again. When light touched the places that had been cold longest. It didn't feel like that yet. Not fully. But I liked reading it anyway.
I started keeping the book under my blanket, next to where my spelling book used to be. I'd flip through it each evening, tracing the lines with my fingers, memorizing the way the Nymphs' dresses moved, the curve of their eyes, the way their hands always reached outward—not for people, but for the world.
They made me feel like the year wasn't just a cycle of weather, but a breathing thing. A rhythm. A story. The book didn't ask me to believe in gods. It didn't ask me to be good or bright or clean. It just told me where to place my feelings. Sometimes, when I sat with the cat in the garden, I'd whisper parts aloud.
"She's the youngest," I said once, tapping the picture of Spring. "But she's still powerful."
The cat blinked slowly, his eyes reflecting light like water.
I started coloring the pages little by little—barely, gently. I didn't want to ruin them. I used old chalk nubs or dipped my fingers in pigment when the older children were distracted. I gave Spring moss-colored lips. I added silver lines to Winter's eyelids. I painted a blush on Fall's cheek. I darkened Summer's river.
Each mark felt like something returning. Like breath. Like hope, maybe. Even if Evelune wasn't here, she would've liked the Nymphs. I imagined reading it to her. Telling her which month we were in. Tracing her name next to Bloomhallow. Explaining how wishes worked in Frostmourn.
Maybe she would've pointed at Summer and said she wanted a dress like that one day. Maybe she would've fallen asleep before I finished the story. Maybe she would've dreamed of the Nymphs. Maybe she still did. And maybe, in her dreams, I was still sitting beside her. Reading slowly. One season at a time.