Snow White and the Raven

Snow White and the Raven

Once, in a kingdom perpetually dusted with frost, there lived a girl with skin pale as snow and hair dark as midnight. She was called Snow White not because of her name, but because of the hush she carried with her — as if winter had settled in her heart and refused to leave.

She did not sing to birds. They feared her.
Except for one.

A raven, ragged-winged and wiser than any crow, watched her from the forest’s crooked trees. While others whispered tales of her cursed blood — her mother, a witch of mirrors, her father, vanished into fog — the raven simply cawed, “Wait.”

Every morning, Snow White walked to the edge of the woods, where frost coated the apple trees. And every morning, the raven followed, its feathers trailing a strange shimmer in the air, like oil on water.

“Why do you follow me?” she asked one day, when the silence between them cracked like ice.

The raven hopped closer. “Because your shadow doesn’t belong to you.”

Snow White looked down. It was true. Her shadow lingered behind, hesitant and trembling, shaped oddly like a girl curled in fear. It moved a second too late.

“I was split,” she said slowly. “When I ran from the mirror. When I broke the spell. But I still feel the glass in my lungs.”

The raven tilted its head. “Then let me show you how to fly.”

He led her into the deep forest, where night always hung like wet velvet. There, in the heart of the woods, was a pool of still black water. “Breathe,” said the raven, “and remember.”

She knelt. The water showed her a younger self — wide-eyed, crowned, trapped behind a pane of silver. Her stepmother's voice echoed: “Beauty is obedience. Obedience is survival.”

Snow White did not cry. Instead, she reached into the water and pulled herself out — not a reflection, but a girl made of shadow and frost, her mirror-twin.

They stood together. Whole.

The raven cawed once, softly. “Now you see.”

Snow White nodded. Her shadow rose and stitched itself back to her feet. The ice in her lungs cracked. A breath escaped — not cold, but warm.

She turned to thank the raven.

But he was gone.

Only a single black feather remained, caught in a flurry of falling snow.