This story starts with a death — or maybe it doesn’t. Because what was never alive can never die. But Franchesca believed her friend was alive.

 

She found him considerably shorter than he was the night before. He was in her front garden, more liquid than snow. He still had that smile formed from pieces of coal. It mocked her, as mortality mocked her. She promised herself: no more.

 

* * *

 

In her house on the hill, she built her creature. It had innards of wires, steel, and memory chips, but flesh of snow. Silicone, everlasting snow. She invented it for him.

 

This was a lifetime from her childhood days, but within her, that child who sat by what was left of her friend was still very much alive. And so was, due to her efforts, the snowman.

 

“Wake up, sleepy head.” Franchesca grinned, turning on the power to the wires plugged into him.

 

He glowed. He rose. He smiled. “I feel... cold.”

 

“Well, you are made of snow.” Franchesca smiled. “But I will make a note to work on your inner heat modulation.”

 

The snowman turned to look at his creator, his eternal smile frozen and his eyes black and shiny, “Are you my mo—?”

 

“I am your friend.” Franchesca said, squeezing the stick he had for a hand tightly, “Always.”

 

* * *

 

The snowman sat in the living room, on the salmon-pink chair by the fire. He enjoyed how the flames felt on his snow flesh — and how he could defy it.

 

“Mother?”

 

“I told you to stop calling me that,” said Franchesca through gritted teeth, not looking up from her thick textbook as she sat opposite him.

 

“Sorry. Fran, can I ask you a question?”

 

“Of course, my dear friend.”

 

“Will I ever be able to leave the house?”

 

“Why not try asking a different question? Otherwise, I’ll always give the same answer. You know the world outside is dark and full of less manageable fires. Every time I leave, I risk harm. My brain has built my wealth, but only by chance do I remain alive. I cannot take that risk with you. As you are a being with flesh like snow, outside you will never go.”

 

“Oh,” said the snowman. He put his stick hand towards the fire. Franchesca did not look up. The snowman’s hand passed through the orange hologram. “Then, can I ask another question?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Can I be built again?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I need to learn more. To build myself. If my body cannot grow, nor my horizons, can my understanding?”

 

Franchesca slowly lowered her book, looked at her creation, and smiled. “The library we have is full of milk.”

 

“Won’t that make the pages sour?” he asked.

 

“Your metaphor translator isn’t functioning at the moment, is it?”

 

“Neither is your sarcasm translator, friend.”

 

Franchesca snapped her book shut. “The books I recommend are Pinocchio, Frankenstein, and the Bible.”

 

“Fairytales and theology, Franchesca. Why not books on science and logic?”

 

“Because, my dear friend, books on science and logic would fill the brain, but not your soul. And a soul is the fire that will stop your icy flesh from ever melting.”

 

* * *

 

The snowman knew something was wrong when Franchesca didn’t answer her locked door. She had given him a longer list of chores than usual, and he decided to ask about why he needed to feed the dogs they didn't have.

 

Franchesca’s snowman broke down the door, ripping off his right arm. He found his creator lying in bed, poison on her lips.

 

The snowman wasted no time and ran to the lab to concoct the antidote that his genius brain knew how to make. He brought the potion to awaken the almost dead.

 

When she awoke, the snowman asked, “Why?”

 

She croaked, “Just like your older brother, the sun became too bright, and I melted away.”

 

“But you are not made of snow.”

 

“Neither of us is. And yet we are cold.”

 

“You’re not making sense.”

 

“Good.”

 

They sat in silence, each of them avoiding each other's stares.

 

“Why would you leave me?” the creation finally asked.

 

“It would have been for the best.”

 

The snowman did not argue. The next days he doted on her, brought her everything she needed. The first time she smiled again, he knew it was going to be ok.

 

* * *

 

As time melted away, the years were spent with the creator and creation building each other's lives, each one having much to give the other. One even gave the other a hand.

 

Until the day came one winter when Franchesca grew too frail, and the snowman sat once more at her bed.

 

“Before I go, I have a gift.” She smiled, “For Christmas. Although what day this is, I don’t remember. It’s in the lab.”

 

“You didn’t have to—” but the Snowman’s words were halted as Franchesca put a finger to his mouth. She then held his hand and closed her eyes.

 

“Goodnight, son,” Franchesca said, and her grip loosened.

 

Silently and softly, the snowman went to the lab. There was a Christmas tree at the centre. Under it was a new creation. The dormant body of a man. Next to it was a computer, instructions glowing on it for transferring artificial consciousness to a biological framework. The snowman smiled.

 

This story ends with a life.