My Short Stories. “The Last Spring”.

Mary had never seen real snow. Her grandmother spoke of it often—how it used to fall quietly over the hills, blanketing everything in white, turning the world into something magical. But Mary only knew snow from old pictures and the melted echoes of what used to be winter.

By the time she turned thirteen, her small coastal town had been flooded twice. The once-bustling harbour was now a ghostly line of half-submerged buildings, and the school had moved inland after the last storm swept through. Every morning, Mary checked the sea wall’s height, knowing that one more storm could mean they’d have to leave for good.

Her father, a marine biologist, spent most of his days cataloging what was disappearing—coral reefs, fish species, wetlands. “We’re recording memories,” he said once, not realising she had overheard. “The planet remembers, even if we forget.”

Then one morning, something changed. Mary woke to a faint, unfamiliar chill in the air. She stepped outside and saw frost—a thin, silvery sheen across the grass. Her breath fogged in front of her. It wasn’t snow, but it was close. She ran back inside, woke her younger brother, and pulled him outside just to feel it.

“It’s cold!” he squealed, laughing.

“Maybe,” Mary whispered, “spring is still willing to try.”

It didn’t last. By noon, the sun returned in full force, and the frost vanished like a dream. But that morning stayed with her—not as a sign that things were fixed, but as proof that even in a world warmed and weary, moments of change were still possible.