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In the deep silence of a frosty winter night, I awakened to the sensation of being. My first memory was of the cold, the crisp, biting chill that somehow felt like home. I was a snowman, crafted with care and love, standing in the heart of a quaint little garden that sparkled under the moonlight.

From my vantage point, I could see the world in a way few others could. My eyes, two shiny black buttons, caught the gleam of stars and the distant lights from the houses. My carrot nose pointed toward the sky, snuffling in the icy air, while my mouth, a crooked line of pebbles, seemed to smile despite the cold.

The first morning was magical. The sun rose, casting a golden glow across the landscape, turning the frost into a million tiny prisms. Children, bundled in their colorful winter gear, rushed out to greet me. Their laughter was like music, their shouts of joy as they circled me, a symphony of delight. I felt a deep sense of pride, knowing I was the centerpiece of their winter wonderland.

Days passed, each with its own rhythm and beauty. The children would come daily, sometimes adding more to my form – a scarf here, a hat there, making me feel even more part of their world. They’d talk to me, share secrets, and even tell stories, as if I were an old friend. I listened, or rather, I absorbed their words, their warmth.

But with joy came the understanding of my ephemeral nature. I watched as the sun climbed higher each day, its warmth beginning to nibble at my edges. My arms, once sturdy branches, started to droop, and my body slowly lost its crisp outline. Snowflakes that once made me would melt, seeping into the ground, returning to the cycle from which they came.

The children noticed too. Their faces grew solemn as they realized what was happening. They tried to rebuild me with fresh snow, but it was like fighting the inevitable march of time. One evening, as the sun set, painting the sky in hues of pink and orange, they gathered around me for what I knew would be the last time.

They spoke of next winter, of another snowman, but their voices were tinged with sorrow. I felt a pang, not of fear, for I knew I was but a part of the season, but of love for these fleeting moments we shared.

As night fell, I felt my form softening, my vision blurring until the world was nothing but a soft, white blur. In those final moments, I reflected on the beauty of existing, even if only for a brief while. I was a guardian of their winter memories, a friend who stood tall in the cold, a symbol of joy in the heart of winter.

And then, with the quiet dignity of winter’s end, I returned to the earth, my essence mingling with the ground, waiting, perhaps, for another winter to come when I might rise again, to laugh with the children, to stand once more under the vast, starry sky.