No one knows exactly how old this white dog is. He can't say for sure himself. Was his fur always this snowy w…
No one knows exactly how old this white dog is.
He can't say for sure himself.
Was his fur always this snowy white, or did it turn from black to grey, and from grey to white, worn down to this color by time, inch by inch?
He doesn't remember either.
So sometimes, Old Snow feels like he's lived for far too long.
Long enough to forget many things.
Long enough to almost forget that he isn't just called "White-Haired Dog," but that he has a name.
Who... who used to call him by that name?
Was it a smiling woman, stroking his head while she said it?
Was it a child with a tiny voice, pouncing on him and shouting it?
Was it a spirited youth, standing before him and asking it?
He seems to have forgotten, yet seems not to.
Time never stops, and the crowds move forward, while he alone moves backward.