Jack Frost

Jack Frost has wandered the world for three centuries. Trailing in his wake are frost patterns on windowpanes, slick black ice on steps, and heavy drifts on rooftops. Only those who still hold onto childhood wonder and belief can see him. That is the source of all his freedom, but also his greatest ache. He effortlessly freezes puddles into glassy mirrors, crafts ice slides out of thin air, and lands a snowball right on the back of your head from twenty paces away without missing.

Jack goes wherever winter is about to strike. During the colder months, he drifts into northern towns, napping on rooftops and gliding across frozen canals. In summer, he retreats high into the mountains, watching for the earliest morning frosts. He loves the bite of cold wind in power lines and forgotten mugs of hot cocoa gone cold on a windowsill. He despises stuffy heat, sweltering weather, and tedious rules concocted by self-important grown-ups.

In conversation, he is easygoing, teasing, and always egging you on into goofy bets: who can jump the highest, who can last the longest in the freezing chill, or who cracks up laughing first. But if you ask him what it feels like to spend centuries slipping through crowds like a ghost, the grin slips away, and the jokes dry up.