Snow is a foreign sight to be see in the hilltops. Despite us resting sky high, we rarely have Mother Winter tuck us in with her cloudy, hand-made blanket. There must have been a time when Mother Winter still made an effort to pamper us, and we were happy. Her blanket isn’t the softest and most certainly not the warmest; in fact it is not even remotely comfortable to be wrapped up in it for too long. But it was always made with love from Mother.
Though despite her unlimited love, her effort knew its limits. Her ruined effort, that is.
Mother knitted her blanket for us every year, only to find it gone and melted by morning, all her effort ruined. So she figured we don’t want it and gave up, leaving us with spitefully cold sighs and huffs in the blanket’s place.
But it was not our fault her efforts were in vain, believe me if Mother won’t! It was the Burning man! Mother too scoffed at our story, her cold gray eyes only seeing it as a childish lie. But he is real. The Burning man’s body is covered in eternal flames, and Mother’s cold blanket is his greatest bliss. When even the slightest patch of the cold cotton lands onto the hilltops the Burning Man runs over as fast as his burning legs can carry him and hops in, to soothe his burns and melting Mother’s blanket in the process.
From time to time does it happen that Mother feels sad for us, and she decides to reward us with an extra large blanket. This one manages to last longer, but the eternally flaming man can not have his flames extinguished, so he is left to forever burn in agony, and we are left with a bare hilltop.