The world had no color.

I blinked, then blinked again. The landscape was vast and white. Mounds oof snow dotted the scene, and in the distance, knobby black trees had sprouted. They stood out harshly against this colorless backdrop, their branches reaching up to rip at the clouds.

It was rather unnerving.

The road I stood on had been barricaded by the snow, blocking any entrance or exit into this deathly quiet white place. This was disconcerting. It was just then I realized it should have been cold. That was the way it went--snow fell, temperatures dropped. Apparently, that wasn't the way of it here; the flakes continued to fall from the stony gray sky without a hint of frost. And then even the sky was disobeying rules. It wasn't a dull gray anymore, but a crisp, stark white. The horizon blended into the vast stretch of snow-blanketed ground, making it impossible to tell where the landscape ended and the sky began. Miles of snow, no cold, white sky.

It was very unnerving.

There hung a deadly sense of discontent in the air. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but it was almost painfully obvious; something was very wrong here. I blinked yet again, but I knew I was trapped in this surreal picture of silence, and no amount of blinking could change that.

It was a very abrupt entrance. With another bat of my eyelids, a boy had appeared by the side of the road. He looked to be kneeling by a small rock--no, a grave. I was a little encouraged; surely this new form of life would brighten the atmosphere. As I approached him, I discovered I was wrong again. He was dressed all in black, old-fashioned clothes and had hair of the same color. His skin was so pale--as stark white as the sky--that he looked more dead than alive. Two little coal black eyes were fastened on the grave in front of him. The shades, the hues of the child were just as extreme and unsettling as the landscape around him. I was so lost in my thoughts I hardly realized that this macabre porcelain doll was staring straight at me.

"Do you think she's in heaven?"

I started, not at the question, but the tone of his voice. He didn't sound like a darling 6 year old, more like a wry 17 year old teenager.
"Huh?" My, did I sound intelligent. The boy stood slowly, clasping his hands behind his back.
"My mother. Do you think she's in heaven?" I glanced down at his knees. They should've been wet from the snow, but they weren't.
"Probably," I murmured, "but I didn't know your mother."
"They say she's with the angels now," the boy said thoughtfully, rocking from his toes to his heels. "They say she's with God. In heaven." Then an awful grin crept over his tiny features. "But I know better."