In her world, filled with darkness and cold, it was all she could do. She would gather the children huddled in the corner, and told stories of warmth. She was the only one who remembered, after all. She would tell tales of the blooming flowers, delicate and fragrant. Lilies, and roses, daffodils and dandelions. The children repeated the names with a comforting ring. Daisies and tulips, peonies and queen anne’s lace. She told them of creatures who roamed the earth, tall and short, big and small. Tigers and bunnies, dogs and lions. The children listened, enchanted. They left behind their barren world and escaped into memories that didn’t belong to them. They pleaded for her to tell the story of what they couldn’t begin to fathom most often. A warm, soothing light in the sky, which the old woman called the sun. At night, when the children lay shivering, trying to fall asleep, they thought of the sun, of soft glows. They thought of opportunity, the world of color and possibilities. They closed their eyes and finally fell gently into sleep, dreaming of hues of orange and yellow and warm.