351: Snowman ☃️❄️
Daily Image created using ChatGPT (Anime AI Art)
☃️ Mr. Button
By the time the last lantern was lit, the snowman stood complete. Three stacked spheres packed by twig hands, a red-and-black scarf cinched tight, and a top hat borrowed from the lost-and-found bin at the train station. His coal eyes greeted visitors to the square, where the bakery’s windows glowed golden, and the clock tower ticked toward six.
The children had named him “Mr. Button” and declared him the official watchman of the village’s winter fair. He was built just off the cobbled path, and every evening, the vendors arrived with carts of roasted chestnuts and mulled cider. The air smelled of cinnamon and pine. Mr. Button watched it all in silence, smiling, his stick arm raised in a permanent wave.
On the third night, George snuck out after curfew. He’d heard rumors of a fox that stole pastries from the bakery’s back door. He crouched behind Mr. Button, waiting. The snowman didn’t blink, didn’t flinch when the fox padded into view, nose twitching. George held his breath. The fox paused, looked at Mr. Button, then turned and trotted away as if scared.
By the fifth night, someone had added a pair of old boots beneath the snowman’s base. “He’s got feet now,” said the florist, laughing. “Maybe he’ll walk the square.” That evening, a gust of wind knocked over a lantern. The flame sputtered near the garland stand. Mr. Button didn’t move, of course, but the florist said she’d seen his shadow stretch toward the fire, as if reaching.
On the seventh night, the snow turned wet. The rooftops dripped. Mr. Button’s smile sagged. His hat tilted. Children tried to patch him, but the snow wouldn’t hold. By morning, he was a slumped heap, wrapped in a scarf and boots. The villagers didn’t rebuild him. “He did his job,” said George, tying the scarf around his own neck. “He watched over us.”
With the winter fair over, the village returned to normalcy. The lamplit streets stayed quiet that night, but the bakery left out an extra tart, just in case the fox returned. And though the snowman was gone, the square still felt watched by coal eyes that had seen seven nights of winter joy, and a stick arm that had waved through them all.
