Snow-rain is a new word Vic has to add to his dictionary. The clouds above the head filter out the color of the sunshine. The whole Montreux is cast in a gray hue. Flakes that escape the greedy foliage of pine trees travel down the hills through the winter breeze, greeting Christmas shoppers and humming automobiles with wet smooches and finally trickling down along the cracks of the uneven ground.

That’s when Vic catches sight of the silent beast, calmly in hibernation. Standing next to the water, he could discern corners of Les Jumelles that were not concealed by the opaque, frozen floating clouds. His interests are piqued immediately, with his eyes fixated on a straight line that cuts horizontally across the mountains. Beneath the line, the flora still struggles to maintain their greenish liveliness, yet the forest above seems to have entered a completely different season, moving headlong into the deep winter with all the whiteness.

Vic suddenly feels thousands of needles stinging his face, assaulting his bare skin. The cold wind hits unexpectedly, right here on his side and across the water. Despite the bitter freeze, Vic shoots his eyes wide open. The clouds hindering a clear view roll over, unveiling the long-awaited painting. There he finally sees it clearly: the frost bites from the top to halfway up the hillside, drawing a line between the two seasons, slicing the space-time continuum, and presenting completely contrasting yet equally stunning color palettes splattered on the mountains. Vic is in shock, the good kind, his head brimming with joy. Nothing ever touches him as much as the endless surprise nature brings, and he has to share it with her, with Serena, who understands him more than anyone—he turns his head just to see Naush staring back at him, expectantly. Behind Naush is the crowd he came with, and Serena isn’t among them.

Oh, Serena isn’t here. She hasn’t been for months. Now he feels the frosts biting into his heart.