a snow-dusted, bare-footed, lantern-lit memory of two lost souls finding hope and a second chance in each other. both born in a tundra, fiery wings spread wide after emerging the cracks of their snowy eggs, they reach a hand towards the other and in its meeting find a moment of peace. sometimes that’s all we can hope for, when so many regrets and desires weigh heavy on our shoulders— is that particular breed of hope found only in the connection with another.
it’s a commonality in all swanchime works, but never fails to move me all the same. cheers to the death of winter, and the eventual blossoming of springhope.