The penguin led her through the sleeping city, past the glowing bakery, past the silent fountain in the park, to the old abandoned icehouse by the river. The door was rusted shut, but as Jayme approached, the metal groaned. Frost spiraled out from her fingertips. With a single push, the door flew open.
She’d seen doctors. Specialists. A man who claimed to read auras and suggested she was “emotionally allergic to summer.” Nothing worked. So Jayme simply adapted. She wore snow boots in July, slept with a small fan pointed at her feet (the heat they generated was, paradoxically, unbearable to the rest of her), and avoided carpeted areas.
Over the next week, the penguin—whom she reluctantly named Popsicle—refused to leave. It followed her to the library, waited outside the door, and slid on its belly across the condensation trail she left behind. It stole her frozen peas and tucked them under its wing. It slept on a bag of ice at the foot of her bed. jayme lawson the penguin
Jayme Lawson was, by all accounts, a perfectly ordinary woman. She lived in a small, perfectly organized apartment, worked a perfectly quiet job as a library cataloger, and took her perfectly bland lunch at precisely 12:17 PM each day.
Jayme looked down at her ugly snow boots. She looked at Popsicle, who gave a solemn nod. And for the first time in her life, she smiled—a wide, genuine, slightly frosty smile. The penguin led her through the sleeping city,
One night, as Jayme sat reading, Popsicle hopped onto her lap, pecked her kneecap sharply, and waddled to the door. It did this seven times. Finally, sighing, she followed.
The penguin chirped. It was not a friendly chirp. It was the chirp of recognition. With a single push, the door flew open
“Jayme Lawson,” the man whispered, his voice the crackle of a glacier. “The last of the Winter Souls. You have been dormant long enough.”