Had Apple Bloom been raised differently, it’s possible that she might have doubted what she was seeing, or else convinced herself that she was, at that very moment, wrapped up snuggly in bed and fast asleep, dreaming the craziest of dreams. As it was, thoughts like these did in fact cross her mind, yet only for moments: maybe it had something to do with being raised by ponies who valued truth and honesty; or perhaps it was more to do with growing up on a farm and having little chance to stretch her imagination— beyond thoughts of her long awaited cutie mark, with so much work to be done there was almost no time for fanciful thinking. Apple Bloom was a very practical pony. She bit her tongue and trusted that her eyes were showing her the truth.

“Wha’... what is this?” she said, reaching a trembling hoof out of her window to touch the snow. The flakes were cold. They sent shivers up her skin and stuck to her fur. When she brought her hoof back inside, she could see a small swath of missing snowfall from where she had brushed away the flakes...

Apple Bloom felt sick. Her breath was short, her head was swimming, and her throat was hot and parched; she wondered if she was about to throw up. “A-Applejack?” she called out. “Can, can ya hear me? Hello?”

The response was silence. Apple Bloom held onto the windowsill, for her legs had turned to jelly—she didn’t trust them to support her weight. And when she spoke again, her voice was so small, so massively tiny, that she could barely hear herself. “Applejack... Where... Where are ya? I need ya...”

Her eyes watered. A moment later, she sniffled, and tears streamed down her face. I don’t even care, she thought bitterly, making no effort to wipe away the tears. I don’t care if anypony sees ‘em.

Another glance out the window, and the last fragments of hope that she was dreaming faded away: this was real. As certain as she was that she lacked a cutie mark, so too did she know that time had really ground to a halt, and what in Equestria was she going to do about it?

The question was a flame in the darkness. What was she going to do about it? “Nothing that’s lost stays lost forever,” she whispered to herself fiercely, at last letting go of the window frame and wiping her tears. “That means time, too.”

Apple Bloom gulped. She ran a hoof through her mane.

Then she looked from the window to the clock and to the bolt on her bedroom door. Time had stopped. Applejack wasn’t answering. Her brother was away on family business, and she had about as much chance of waking up Granny Smith as she did being made a Princess of Equestria—that, or course, was assuming she could wake the old mare up in the first place. What if Granny was frozen in time as well? What if she, Apple Bloom, was the only one who could walk, talk, who could act as though the world wasn’t standing still? What if she was the only one who knew that time had stopped?

Images of Ponyville flashed through her mind, a town full of ponies who were stood as still as statues. She thought of trotting unnoticed through silent crowds, and of sitting at a table outside Sugercube Corner; imagine Scootaloo pouring herself a glass of cola, except the drink may as well have been made of ice and her friend out of wax. Imagine pegasi hanging in the air, held up by nothing and their wings deadly still, their eyes unblinking. Imagine... imagine being the last pony in the world, and all of time stretching out forever and ever and there was no-one with which to share it; and the sun was dead, the moon and the stars were dead, and it was dark and it was cold. Imagine. Imagine.

“Ah don’t like it. Stop thinking ‘bout it, Apple Bloom, stop it, stop it!”

Her tears had returned with a vengeance, transforming her into a blubbering mess. Apple Bloom forced herself to sit down. She wiped her cheeks again. They were boiling hot, and her tears matted into her fur messily. “None, none of that’s gonna happen,” she said shakily, her skin icy cold and her stomach churning like the bottom of a waterfall. “Not one bit of it. You’re... you’re gonna fix it up ‘cos that’s what ya do, ya fix things. Sweet Celestia, if ya can mend the clubhouse then... then this’ll be nothin’...”

Apple Bloom hiccupped. A fragile smile spread over her face. Forgetting about what she had just imagined wouldn’t be easy, or perhaps even impossible, but there and then she decided that the one thing she couldn’t do—wouldn’t do—was let the nightmares scare her. She had to keep moving. She had to keep her mind focused, and she had to keep doing things.

What she needed was a plan.

“Stupid Apple Bloom,” she said. “Use ya head! Wasting time in your room ain’t gonna solve a thing. Go see if Scoots and Sweetie Belle are alright, that’s what ya gotta do.”

Now that she had said it, the idea seemed so simple that it was a wonder it had taken her this long to think of it: go and find her two best friends, pray that that too hadn’t been affected by whatever darkness had fallen over Ponyville. She pictured Sweetie Belle’s worried face as she tried to wake her sister; she saw, in the eye of her mind, Scootaloo franticly dashing around her house, nerves preventing her from keeping still. But thinking about her friends, even in such dreadful states, was enough to lift Apple Bloom out of her misery. Sudden determination passed over her face. Once she had found them, the three of them would put their heads together and figure out a way to... to...

Apple Bloom stared at the door, and no wonder. A dull red glow seeped under the edges, a light which put her in mind of hot coals. The most frightful light possible.

Something in the corridor was burning...