The old woman stumbled into her garden, grumbling at the cold for nipping at her fingers. She brushed away the leaves that had fallen onto her typewriter overnight and set to work, the flame of her ambition keeping her warm.
She finished her book before the first snows fell. This was her desire.
They found her there, frozen in place, a smile about her lips and a satisfied look in her eye. Her book could not be found, for the storm had blown it over half the county. All that year farmers found her pages in their crops, children discovered her words in their forts, and hikers came across her lines written all over the forest. They collected them, but it seemed they never could find every one, and this, in the end, was how she haunted them.