Some miles from Canterlot, in the light of the last streetlamp before the road was swallowed by the forest, a carriage came to a sudden halt. A few moments passed, and then the driver, an earth pony, opened the door and looked his passenger in the eyes.

“End of the line I’m afraid, missy,” he said. “Looks like they’re starting a few hours early this year.”

His passenger—a white mare dressed in a cloak—stared back at him. “Beg your pardon?” she said. “It’s not snowing yet.”

“But it will do soon, ah guarantee it. Come look for yourself why don’t yah?”

Frowning, the mare stuck her head out of the door and saw that the clouds were wild and angry, and ready to start dumping snow at a moment’s notice. The Canterlot weather team were known for priding themselves on their punctuality. They were never late, but more importantly neither were they early; somepony must have really messed things up for them to be so ahead of schedule...

The mare sighed. “So you’re not going to take me up.”

“Have no fear ma’am,” said the driver. “It so happens that we’ve just passed Trotbury. Stay the night in the inn, and I’ll take you the rest of the way in the morning.” He winked at the mare. “Me and the innkeeper, we go way back... I’ll get you a room for free, y’all just sit back an’ watch!”

The mare planted a hoof on her forehead. Arriving home in the morning simply wasn’t an option; in some ways though, the worst thing of all about this situation was that she could entirely sympathize with the stallion. It was dark. It was windy and cold, and dangerous. She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to carry on. “I don’t want a room for free, I want to go home,” she said, trying her best to keep her irritation out of her voice—the driver deserved better than that. “What’s it gonna take? Enough bits to put you in a hotel for the night?”

“Well... well ah guess if—”

But what he guessed the mare never found out, for just then a fearsome gust of wind shook the nearby trees, rattled the carriage, and blew the hood off the driver’s head to reveal his grey mane, his tough old face. He stopped talking. He shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “This here’s the end of the line. Ain’t taking another step up that there path, it ain’t worth the risk.”

“Look,” said the mare. “I promised my son that I’d be back to read him a story before his birthday tomorrow. He’s expecting me, he’s probably worried sick.”

The driver shook his head again. “Bedtime stories, they can wait. End of—”

“The line, yes, got it.” The mare took a deep breath. “I’ve gotta walk, haven’t I?”

The driver laughed. “You’re a pegasus ain’t you? How come yah don’t just fly?”

“With wind like this? In any case, I couldn’t fly even if I wanted to.”

“How d’you mean?” said the driver, raising an eyebrow. The mare gave him a wry smile. Taking off her cloak, she revealed her cutie mark—a pair of wings set on fire—and her real wings were wrapped in bandages. Understanding poured into the driver’s face. “Say, what happened to you?”

The mare shrugged. “Little fall,” she said in such a way as to make it clear she didn’t want to talk about it. “Look. You seem like a good guy. Are you absolutely sure you can’t carry on? I haven’t seen my family in two weeks now, and I don’t want to break a promise to my son on his birthday.”

Once more, the driver bit his lip. “How old’s he turning?”

“Six. He’s been looking forward to it for months.”

In the pause which followed, the driver glanced at his hooves, thinking to himself; but right at that moment there was another frightful gust of wind, and snow landed on his snout, and soon the air was full of little snowflakes falling down gently and illuminated by the streetlamp. They were the sort that warned you that this was just the start, that soon their bigger, heavier brothers would be on the way, and woe betide any pony who was caught out in the open.

“No sense to it I’m afraid,” the driver said, a hint of regret entering his voice. “Ah know it ain’t far, but nopony’s gonna know we’re out there. Stop ‘ere for the night. I’ll ever give you some o’ your money back.”

Now it was the mare’s turn to shake her head, and any lingering irritation she felt transformed into steely resolve. She narrowed her eyes as she turned her head to face the forest; all things considered, there wasn’t even a choice. If the driver wasn’t willing to take her the rest of the way than she was going to have to walk, because staying here the night wasn’t possible, not when her son needed her. She wasn’t going to risk missing his birthday. “Keep the money,” she said, firmly. “I’ve got a promise to keep.”

The stallion blinked. “... Yah not thinking about walking?”

“And why shouldn’t I? If a thousand hoof drop isn’t enough to get me then this’ll be nothing. No, listen,” she said before he could cut her off, or perhaps ask her what she meant by ‘thousand hoof drop.’ “I don’t even have to make it all the way to Canterlot, ‘cos I live a little outside of it. So keep your fee. I don’t blame you for staying down here.”

“But—”

“A promise is a promise,” said the mare as she threw her cloak back on and retrieved her saddlebag from underneath her seat. She stepped out of the carriage and stood tall, facing the darkness of the forest. The freezing wind blew her mane. She quivered. The hairs on her neck prickled.

“Mad,” said the driver. “Crazier than a bessie bug. It’ll be a blizzard before yah even know it, an’ you’ll be in the woods alone without a light.”

“Well that’s why you’re gonna to give me one, isn’t it,” she said, reaching into her saddle bag and handing the driver a hoofful of bits. He blinked at her again, more bewildered than ever.

“Are yer sure I can’t persuade you to—”

“I don’t care about the blizzard, I’m not staying in the inn. I’m keeping a promise to my son.”

Sensing that trying to talk sense into the mare was a fruitless task, the driver sighed, and then rummaged around in a trunk built into the back of the carriage. The mare could hear him mutter things such as ‘nutty’ and ‘has a screw loose.’ “Go as quick as yah can,” he warned her once he found the lantern. “I ain’t afraid to admit these here woods always give me the creeps, and so you be careful now, yah hear me?”

The mare nodded, giving him a reckless sort of grin, and with that she plunged herself into the darkness. It wasn’t long before the trees obscured the lamp light. She was alone.

Tomorrow was December the first, Rainy Day’s birthday, and nothing was going to stop her from being there the whole day for him, not darkness, not fear, not even the first snow of winter; and this year, the opening blizzard looked like it was going to be a doozey. She walked faster.

In Canterlot, First Snow wasn’t simply a big deal, but a massive deal. It was when the Hearth’s Warming decorations came out to transform the city into a winter wonderland. Every year, Rainy Day’s mother would take him to see the lights being switched on, and then they would stay for the festivities and celebrations, the hot chocolate, the roasted chestnuts. Winter had come. That meant cosy nights by the fire, cakes and stories and cheer.

“I’m coming, Rainy,” she said to herself as she walked up the mountain path, the trees swaying in the icy wind. Her breath misted in the light of the lantern; thank Celestia she wasn’t out in the open! The forest was so thick that even in winter it still provided good cover from the snowfall.

But though she was mostly covered from the snow, she could still hear it, a strange pitter-patter, a sound which was exactly halfway between unnerving and calming. The mare shivered; she’d never liked this sound, so she whispered a few lines from an old tune to herself to take her mind off it, a song her grandmother had used to sing to her as a lullaby, and very peculiar it was too. Her grandmother had grown up in an ancient, mountainous country far to the north of Trottingham, and the tune had been passed down from generation to generation and was sung in a language long forgotten. Though Rainy’s mother had no idea what the words actually meant, she didn’t care, because to her they meant comfort.

A chill crept up her back. Brave as she may have been, nevertheless, it was hard not to imagine pairs of eyes staring at her in the darkness, ancient spirits and terrible monsters. The sooner she was resting by the fireplace with Rainy Day, the better.

And as she sang these last few lines, at last the trees thinned out, and all of a sudden there was her house in the distance, standing alone on the outskirts of Canterlot next to a thicket of trees, one window lit up joyfully. Relief flooded through her body, warming her as though she’d trotted into a patch of sunlight. Home at last!

The house had small windows. Ivy grew up the white painted walls. It was old, supremely old, and it had an air of loneliness about it despite its proximity to Canterlot; but it also felt cosy. By the time Rainy’s mother walked down the garden path and knocked on the door, the snow was at least two hooves deep. She heard a clatter of hooves, the sound of a key, and then the door was opened by unicorn stallion with a dull brown coat and a dark mane. “Oh look,” he said in the driest voice he could muster. “Our champion returns.”

His eyes lingered on the mare’s wings. The corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh...

“Yeah, I missed you too,” said the mare, rolling her eyes and sighing happily; what a relief it was to finally, finally be greeted like a normal pony! Ever since the accident in the Cloudsdale Wonderbolts tryouts, she’d been plagued by ponies talking to her in solemn voices and staring at her with grim looks—you would’ve sworn she was dying, so not to be treated this way by her husband was the greatest gift she could’ve asked of him.

Oh, how close she’d been to being accepted into the Wonderbolts! The pain of being rejected was worse by far than the pain in her wings and—

But she was home, home at last, and didn’t want to think about it; everything was about Rainy Day now and making his birthday something special. Taking off her saddlebag and throwing her cloak on a peg, she hungrily drew her husband into the tightest embrace she could manage and closed her eyes gently, relishing the feel of his coat against hers, and of his forelegs wrapped around her. For everything that had happened, it may as well have been a month since she last seen him as opposed to a fortnight.

Eventually, she let go of him and asked, “Rainy’s in bed?”

Her husband couldn’t suppress his laughter. “Hah! You seriously think he’s in bed? You don’t think, for instance, that he insisted on staying up for you no matter what just to make sure he got his bedtime story off you? No, Rainy’s in the living room passed out in front of the fire. I’d be careful about waking him up. The excitement would probably kill him.”

Walking through the corridor and into the living room, sure enough, the mare found her son fast asleep on the tatty rug, his mouth hanging open, his white mane and tail sprayed out over the floor and his grey wings twitching slightly. He was facing the window. He must’ve been waiting for hours to be in such a state; when his mother glanced at the grandfather clock it was almost eleven, far later than she’d realised.

And it seemed that she wasn’t the only pegasus with a story to tell: Rainy Day’s left wing was wrapped in bandages. She beamed at him. Her heart swelled with pride.

“Don’t tell me,” she whispered.

“Oh yeah, you know it” her husband whispered back with barely contained exasperation. “ ‘Wait until you mother comes home,’ I tell him, but does he listen? ‘Her lessons aren’t enough,’ he says, and the moment you turn you back on him, boomph! He’s out climbing the tallest tree he can find and chucking himself off it like there’s no tomorrow. I swear he’s going to be throwing himself off a cliff next.”

“Oh hush. Rainy’s got more sense than that.”

It was clear from the way he huffed how much sense Rainy’s father thought his son possessed, however he didn’t peruse the issue. Rainy’s mother knelt down beside the colt and placed a hoof on him.

Rainy Day was soaring alongside his mother, and he had earned his cutie mark, a cutie mark for flying! His mother turned to him. “Rainy,” she said, although for some reason her voice sounded far away, distant. “Rainy, wake up. Wake up, Rainy...”

The dream faded. The warmth of the fire washed over him, and he felt a dull ache in his wings and the cuts on his legs. After a few moments, he realised that somepony was kneeling down next to him.

He opened his eyes.

The fireplace was blurry. The room seemed huge and his head throbbed. Everything was too bright, too loud. His eyelids were made of lead, and laying back down and falling asleep would’ve been the easiest thing in the world; however, something was different. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he turned around and saw white hooves, a white coat and white wings. There was that familiar, fiery cutie mark he knew so well, along with that loving face which managed to make him forget his tiredness in an instant. “M-mom?”

“Bandages again, huh?” said his mother. “You really have a knack for getting yourself into these situations, don’t ya? Hmm?”

She grinned at him, and a second later he shot up and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his face against her coat roughly. His eyes watered but he didn’t care: Mom was home! She was home, and these last two weeks, sending her letters but not being able to speak to her... he shuddered to think about it. It was as though a dark rift that had been tearing itself open inside of him was suddenly sealed shut.

“You’re really cold, Mom!”

“If I’d stayed outside any longer I would’ve turned into a snowpony. I’m not even joking; that’s exactly what happens.”

Rainy giggled, reluctantly letting go of his mother as the mare stood up. “How are your wings feeling?” she asked him.

He glanced at them proudly. “They sting, Mom.”

“How tragic. I guess I’ll just have to cut ‘em off, that’ll sort out the problem.”

Rainy Day gasped, but his mom was still grinning. Young though he was, already he had learnt that only half of what she said was sincere, and that the other half was always said with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

“Right,” she said. “Bedtime. Chop-chop.”

“But Mom—”

“But nothing, young stallion. It’s past eleven and you should be in bed. Dad tells me you haven’t even brushed your teeth yet! You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Sensing that all the pouting in the world wouldn’t make even a shred of difference, Rainy Day marched past his mom and dad into the corridor, and up the wooden stairs to go and brush his teeth. After putting his Daring Do toothbrush back in the holder, he trotted up one more flight of stairs to his bedroom in the attic, leaving the door wide open for his mom to follow.

The attic. That old, dusty, dirty attic...

In spring, the wailing of the wind would keep him awake. In summer, it was too hot. In autumn, the rain beat down upon the roof, and in winter it was so cold that sometimes, in the mornings, his breath would mist in front of his face. But none of these things mattered to him because, his mom aside, more than anything else in the world, more than exploring, more than his wings, Rainy Day loved his bedroom in the attic; it was easy to bear the pain in his wings and legs when his bed was waiting for him. The floorboards and the rafters were bare. With his hand-me-down bed, the second-hoof wooden furniture and the odd bits and pieces that his parents stored up here—chests, suitcases, board games, jewellery, Hearth’s Warming decorations, and even a worn-out piano—it was easy to imagine that this wasn’t a bedroom at all but instead a smuggler’s cave in a far off land. It was a dragon’s den atop a lonely mountain. It was a shipwreck filled with treasure. The room was whatever Rainy Day needed it to be, and his privite sanctuary away from the world.

“How are you feeling now?” asked Mom as she shut the door behind her, switching off the main light. Rainy Day turned on his bedside lamp and sat up in bed. He flexed his wings, sending a shiver of pain shooting through him; but less than an hour from now he would be six years old, six! Who cared if his wings hurt?

“Fine,” he said, brightly. “I’m fine. I could take on a dragon!”

He looked up, but Mom didn’t look back, instead staring out of the window. “Rainy, look,” she whispered. “They’ve started early this year, did you notice?”

Rainy blinked, and then gazed curiously at the familiar view out of the window beside his bed. Some way above them, the lights of Canterlot gleamed like jewels on the mountainside, a thousand lights shimmering in the darkness, all different colours, oranges and yellows, blues, and here and there a few dashes of purple and red; all half-obscured behind the tall trees next to his house, but this served to make the sight even more magical. It made the attic seem private and hidden from the outside world, as though it was in the centre of a forest.

And it was snowing.

Rainy had fallen asleep long before it had started, and of course he’d been much too thrilled by his mom’s return to pay attention to anything that was going on outside the windows. Now, he watched as flakes of snow gathered on his windowsill; and outside, the world was a particular sort of quiet that only snowfall at night could conjure up, a type of silence that was hard to define but which was very much real: it was like the world was holding its breath as it was transformed into a giant canvas. Come morning, the possibilities would be endless.

His mother whispered in his ear, “Snowponies in the morning, I think, and a snow fort. We’re gonna go all out this year, it’s gonna be brilliant.”

Rainy carried on staring out of his window. “Yeah,” he said flatly, his wonder draining as quickly as it had appeared. “Brilliant.”

Though Rainy Day loved snow, he hated that he shared his birthday with the first day of winter, hated it, hated it, hated it! Seeing those first little flakes lit up by his lamp, Rainy found it hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice, and, what a confusing mixture of feelings he had! There was love for his mother and delight that she was home, but he also felt crushing tiredness, and the thought of First Snow was making him upset... his head started to ache once more.

Of all the days in the year, why was his birthday December the first? Why not the second of December or the thirtieth of November? Rainy Day thought about his cousin Summer Delight: Summer had been born halfway through August, which, as far as Rainy was concerned, was the perfect time to have a birthday. To his soon-to-be-six-year-old year old mind, December meant First Snow and Hearth’s Warming. August, by contrast, meant hay fries and long summer evenings, and fun. Summer Delight always had a wonderful, special day all to himself. Rainy Day, on the other hoof, was supremely aware that his special day would always be overshadowed by something larger...

“What’s wrong, darling?” said his mother, placing a hoof on his shoulder. “You’re so quiet tonight. Aren’t you looking forward to tomorrow?”

“How... how come my birthday’s on First Snow?”

“You’ve never asked me this before, dear.”

“... I was just wondering...”

Mom sat on the bed right next to him, and placed a hoof on him. “But you weren’t ‘just wondering’, were you?” she said. “This actually bothers you, doesn’t it?”

Rainy Day gulped. A gust of wind pounded against the window and the roof—being in the attic, it sounded ferocious—and all the while his mom gazed at him sadly. He looked back, his cheeks hot, his stomach cold. He was hugely aware again of how tender his wings felt, of how painful his cuts were.

Mom leaned closer to him. “I thought you were proud that your birthday was on First Snow,” she said, her usual mischievous smile returning. “I wish that my birthday was on First Snow. It’s good luck, don’t ya know?”

Rainy’s ears perked up. “It, it is?”

“Well of course it is! Think about it: you live in a good house, have a loving family... what more could you ask for? Don’t ya know how many ponies would love to have such a killer date to have their birthday on?”

Rainy Day listened with rapt attention, sitting up straight and pulling his blanket up over himself as much as was possible. But he still wasn’t convinced. “You’re, you’re just saying that.”

For a few seconds, his mom seemed lost in thought—Rainy could see it in her eyes and at the way she glanced to the Daring Do clock on the wall: quarter past eleven. Though she’d had every intention of reading him a story, that had been before she’d realised what the time was, and the only reason she was up here now was to give a goodnight kiss for his birthday.

But...

But something felt different tonight, and Rainy could feel it in his hooves. He was sure his mother could sense it to—a nervous kind of energy, like electricity in the air around them. Rainy’s mother faced him once more, her face screwed up; it was late, oh so late, but then again she hadn’t walked up the mountain alone for nothing...

“You know what? I’m going to tell you a story my mom told me when I was little,” she said, “and then you’ll never feel bad about being born on First Snow ever again. Promise. Super promise.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Rainy’s ears perked up. It had been a while since his mom had told her a story without reading from a book, and for as much as he loved hearing about Daring Do’s adventures, these were always his favourite sort of tales. A tremor of joy travelled through him as he sat there in his smuggler’s cave, for the moment forgetting his anxieties about First Snow and listening to the wind pound against the window and the roof. He pulled his blanket over himself a little more. Sinking into his pillow, he watched his mother in the light of his bedside lamp. What a perfect night for telling stories.

A perfect night, in fact, for Rainy’s mother to tell him the last story he would ever hear from her before her death three days later, in the Great Airship Disaster of Canterlot. Rainy Day would never, ever forget this story; every single word would stay with him for the rest of his life.