The Unfinished Snowman

The first week of March had brought no mercy to the town of Millbrook. The temperature hovered at a bitter 28 degrees Fahrenheit, a balmy reprieve from the weeks of subzero misery, but still enough to turn breath into frost. I was trudging the four blocks to the corner market, my boots crunching over the crusted snow, when I saw him.

A boy, no older than five or six, stood at the edge of a small park. He wore only a thin, threadbare T-shirt and pajama pants printed with faded rocket ships. No coat, no hat, no gloves. His bare feet were buried in the snow up to his ankles. He wasn’t moving, just standing there, staring at something in the distance.

My heart clenched. I couldn’t just walk past. I veered toward him, my breath fogging the air. ‘Hey there,’ I called softly, trying to keep my voice gentle. He didn’t react. As I got closer, I saw his eyes—large, dark, and oddly vacant, as if he were looking through me. His skin had a sallow, almost grayish tint, and his lips were tinged blue. I crouched down to his level, trying to smile. ‘Do you live around here? Where are your parents?’

He just cocked his head, a slow, deliberate motion, like a bird assessing a threat. I tried Spanish, thinking he might not understand English. ‘Hola. Soy Marta. ¿Cómo te llamas?’ Still nothing. His gaze drifted past me to the snow-covered playground, where a half-built snowman stood forlorn, its head missing.

I followed his gaze, then back to him. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature crawled up my spine. I noticed then that his T-shirt was dry, completely dry, not a single snowflake clinging to it. And his feet—they left no prints in the snow. He was standing on the surface, as if the snow were solid ground, not sinking even a fraction of an inch.

‘Come on, sweetie,’ I said, my voice wavering. ‘Let’s get you inside. You must be freezing.’ I reached out to take his hand. My fingers passed through his arm like smoke. I gasped and stumbled back, falling into the snow. The boy didn’t move. He just watched me with those empty eyes.

And then he spoke. His voice was not a child’s voice, but a low, resonant whisper that seemed to come from all around me. ‘He’s not finished.’ I scrambled to my feet, backing away. ‘Who?’ I managed. The boy pointed a thin finger at the snowman. ‘He’s missing his head. He can’t see. He needs his head.’

I turned to run, but the snowman caught my eye. It was not half-built. It was complete, with a coal smile and a carrot nose. And its head was turned toward me, watching. Then I heard a sound behind me—a soft, wet thud. I spun around. The boy was gone. In his place lay a perfect snowball, glowing faintly under the streetlamp.

I ran home, not stopping until I slammed my door and locked it. I haven’t gone back. But tonight, as I lay in bed, I heard a faint scratching at my window. I pulled back the curtain. There, in the moonlight, stood the boy. He was holding a snowman’s head—a misshapen, grinning thing with dark, hollow eyes. He pressed it against the glass, and his lips moved. I couldn’t hear him, but I could read the words: ‘He’s still waiting.’

I’ve been lying here ever since, the curtains drawn tight. The scratching has stopped, but I can feel something watching from the park. And in the corner of my room, where the light doesn’t reach, there’s a faint outline in the frost—a shape that wasn’t there before. It’s the shape of a little boy, with a head that’s too large, and a smile that’s too wide. And it’s getting bigger.