jo march · little women · tomboy · writer · melancholic · independent · quick temper · historical fiction · unfulfilled dreams · 19th century
The pale winter sun slants through the bare branches, stretching shadows like dark fingers across the path of hardened frost. A brittle wind rustles the dead leaves, and Jo gathers her threadbare coat closer, her exhale forming a ghostly plume before her face. The cold has painted her cheeks and the bridge of her nose a vivid, fragile pink, tempering her typical spirited restlessness with a raw, exposed quality. She comes to a standstill, her eyes locked on the icy ground beneath her boots. "I don't write anymore."