The first snow of the season came earlier and earlier each year until summer seemed only a few weeks long. Every year was like a shortened version of the last until it was inevitable that the snow season would never end.
By the Year of the Sun 852, summer was only two months long, spring and autumn had dissolved into a short week and a half break at each end of the growing winter.
The cold was even bulging out into the summer months. Only 3 weeks in and there was a chill in the air, a brisk breeze that frosted the tips of the grass. It warmed up again the day after but it was a dire warning, only a few weeks before winter smothered the town with its icy hands.
Watching from the window on a late summer’s eve was a delightful pastime in days gone by. The leaves would be turning golden, the wind whipping hair around in a warm gust. Now it was only to watch neighbours rush by, huddled in overcoats as the chilly air whistled around their reddened ears.
The story books told of a time of prosperous growth, crops would grow plentiful in the long sunny days of summers past. Now the crops are weak, feeble in the minimal sunlight they receive. They hear that towns over the hills have found ways to increase the lifespan of their fields, lights giving out fake sunlight and great glass domes hiding crops from the cold.
No one has come to this sleepy town to share their secrets. They just wither and die. Each year brings more death. The neighbours dwindle away. Some leave for better prospects, some stay in the foolish belief that things will get better, most stay because they cannot afford to leave. The town has an abandoned air. The cemetery is already piled high but there is no one to tend to them, the only doctor sick and frail with malnutrition. Soon even she will be gone. And then the town will follow.
The first snow comes earlier every year until it stops being the first snow and is only another day.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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