The Overcoat

A lone figure, bundled in a thick, woolen scarf the color of faded brick and a long, charcoal-grey coat dusted with snow, walks along a winding, snow-packed road. A large, bright, full moon dominates the deep indigo sky, casting long, ethereal shadows across the snow-covered mountains in the background, their peaks frosted with silver. The town’s lights glow warmly in the distance, a soft, inviting orange against the cold blue of the night. Delicate snowflakes fall, catching the moonlight like tiny diamonds. The road is rutted and uneven, showing hints of frozen earth beneath the snow. Watercolor illustration, soft blending, cool blues and warm oranges create a sense of cold beauty and distant comfort.

It was a super chilly day, and as the moon popped up over the big, snowy mountains, I could see that some snow was still on the roads in our town. I would have loved to be snuggled in bed with a book and a warm water bottle, but I promised my friends, the Kapadias, I’d go to their party, and I didn’t want to be rude. So, I put on two sweaters, my favorite football scarf, and a big coat, and headed out into the moonlight.

It was a little over a mile to the Kapadias’ house, and I was about halfway there when I saw a girl standing in the middle of the road.

A watercolor illustration of the narrator encountering Julie, a young woman with wide, innocent eyes, standing gracefully in the middle of a snow-covered road at night. She wears a shimmering pink and purple dress that seems to generate its own light, reflecting the moonlight in a mesmerizing display. Her bare arms are slightly crossed against the cold. The narrator, visibly surprised but offering a friendly greeting with a slightly hesitant smile and outstretched hand, is wrapped in a dark green coat. The air is filled with swirling snowflakes, illuminated by the soft glow of a nearby streetlight. The road is slick with ice, and the surrounding trees are heavy with snow. The scene evokes a sense of otherworldly beauty and slight unease. Watercolor style, delicate washes, ethereal lighting.

She looked like she was maybe sixteen or seventeen. She had a bit of an old-fashioned look – long hair down to her waist, and a sparkly dress, pink and purple, that reminded me of pictures in my grandma’s photo album. When I got closer, I saw she had really pretty eyes and a sweet smile.

‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘It’s a freezing night to be out.’

‘Are you going to the party?’ she asked.

‘That’s right! And I can see you’re going too, with that beautiful dress. Come on, we’re almost there.’

She walked beside me, and soon we could see the bright lights of the Kapadias’ house shining through the trees. The girl told me her name was Julie. I hadn’t seen her before, but I hadn’t been in town for very long.

There were lots of people at the party, and nobody seemed to know Julie. Everyone thought she was my friend. I didn’t say they were wrong. She probably just felt lonely and wanted to make friends. And she was definitely having fun! I didn’t see her eat or drink much, but she went from group to group, talking, listening, and laughing. When the music started, she danced and danced, by herself or with others. She just loved the music!

A lively watercolor scene of a party indoors, bathed in the warm glow of flickering candlelight and the muted light of a crackling fireplace. Many guests are chatting animatedly, their faces flushed with laughter, dancing with abandon, and holding glasses of sparkling wine. The air is thick with the scent of pine and spiced cider. Julie, in her shimmering dress, is seen dancing joyfully in the middle of the room, her laughter echoing through the space. The room is adorned with festive decorations – strings of colorful lights, garlands of evergreen, and ornate, hand-painted ornaments. The wooden floorboards are worn smooth with age, and the walls are covered in tapestries depicting winter scenes. A long, laden table showcases a feast of delicacies. Watercolor illustration, warm colors, detailed characters, and a sense of joyous celebration.

It was almost midnight when I decided to leave. I had drunk a lot of punch, and I was sleepy. As I was saying goodnight to the Kapadias and wishing everyone a happy holiday, Julie took my arm and said she was going home too.

When we were outside, I asked, ‘Where do you live, Julie?’

‘At Wolfsburn,’ she said. ‘Way up on top of the hill.’

‘It’s really windy,’ I said. ‘And even though your dress is pretty, it doesn’t look very warm. Here, take my coat. I’m wearing lots of layers.’

The narrator, with a look of concern etched on their face, placing a large, heavy, wool coat (perhaps tweed with leather elbow patches) around Julie’s shoulders outside the Kapadias’ house. The house is brightly lit in the background, casting long shadows onto the freshly fallen snow. Light spills from the windows, revealing silhouettes of people inside. Snow is falling gently, creating a magical, ethereal atmosphere. Julie looks pale and fragile, her eyes wide and unreadable. The narrator’s breath steams in the cold air. The scene conveys a feeling of protectiveness and mystery. Watercolor style, soft blending, emotional expressions.

She didn’t say no, and let me put my coat around her shoulders. Then we started walking home. But I didn’t have to walk her all the way. At about the same spot where I first saw her, she said, ‘There’s a shortcut from here. I’ll just climb up the hill.’

Julie points towards a small, overgrown path leading up a snow-covered hill as she says goodbye to the narrator, her voice a soft whisper carried on the wind. Her expression is a mix of sadness and gratitude. The moonlight is strong, illuminating the path and the surrounding trees, their branches laden with snow. The path is barely visible, hidden beneath a thick blanket of white. The surrounding trees are gnarled and ancient, their bare branches reaching towards the sky like skeletal fingers. The air is crisp and cold, and the only sound is the gentle rustling of the wind through the trees. Watercolor illustration, dramatic lighting, and a sense of foreboding. Focus on the texture of the snow and the bark of the trees.

‘Do you know it well?’ I asked. ‘It’s a really small path.’

‘Oh, I know every rock on the path. I use it all the time. Plus, it’s a super bright night.’

‘Okay, but keep the coat,’ I said. ‘I can get it tomorrow.’

She hesitated for a second, then smiled and nodded. Then she disappeared up the hill, and I went home alone.

The next day, I walked up to Wolfsburn. I crossed a little stream, which was probably how the house got its name, and went through an open gate. But the house wasn’t really there anymore. It was just a broken old building, a pile of stones, a broken chimney, and some old pillars where a porch used to be.

A watercolor depiction of the ruins of Wolfsburn, an old stone building with a broken chimney and crumbling pillars, heavily covered in snow. Icy wind whips through the skeletal remains, creating swirling drifts. The chimney is missing its top half, exposing jagged brickwork. The surrounding landscape is barren and windswept, with only a few scraggly trees clinging to life. A single, lone raven perches atop one of the crumbling pillars, its black feathers stark against the white snow. The sky is a turbulent grey, hinting at an approaching storm. The scene evokes a feeling of desolation and decay. Watercolor illustration, muted colors, textured brushstrokes, and a sense of historical significance.

Did Julie play a trick on me? Or did I find the wrong house?

I walked over to the mission house where the Taylors lived and asked Mrs. Taylor if she knew a girl named Julie.

Mrs. Taylor, a kind-looking older woman with wrinkles etched around her warm eyes and a gentle smile, stands in front of her mission house, a modest wooden structure with peeling paint and a welcoming porch light. She wears a practical, brown dress and a knitted shawl. She’s talking to the narrator, her expression one of concern and compassion. A weathered graveyard gate, constructed of wrought iron and partially overgrown with ivy, is partially visible behind Mrs. Taylor, hinting at the stories buried within. The snow is packed hard around the mission house, and the air is crisp and cold. Watercolor illustration, soft colors, focus on facial expressions, and a sense of community.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Where does she live?’

‘At Wolfsburn, I was told. But the house is just a ruin.’

‘Nobody has lived at Wolfsburn for over forty years. The Mackinnons lived there. They were one of the first families here. But when their daughter died…’ She stopped and looked at me strangely. ‘I think her name was Julie… Anyway, when she died, they sold the house and left. Nobody ever lived there again, and it fell apart. But it couldn’t be the same Julie you’re looking for. She was very sick a long time ago. Her grave is in the graveyard, just down the road.’

I thanked Mrs. Taylor and slowly walked down the road to the graveyard. I didn’t really want to know any more, but I felt like I had to.

It was a small graveyard under the trees. You could see the snowy mountains in the bright blue sky. The graveyard was for people who used to live here a long time ago – soldiers, business people, and their families.

It didn’t take me long to find Julie’s grave. It was a simple stone with her name on it:

Julie Mackinnon 1923-39 ‘With us one moment, Taken the next, Gone to her Maker, Gone to her rest.’

Even though it had rained a lot over the years, the stone looked new.

A simple gravestone in a snowy graveyard, made of grey granite, bearing the inscription ‘Julie Mackinnon 1923-39’ carved in elegant, weathered lettering. The gravestone is slightly overgrown with coarse grass, peeking through the snow, and delicate snowflakes cling to its surface. Snow-covered mountains loom in the background, their peaks shrouded in mist. The narrator’s folded coat, dark and heavy, rests neatly at the base of the stone, a sign of respect and mourning. The light is soft and diffused, creating a somber atmosphere. The wind whispers through the graveyard, carrying the faint scent of pine and snow. Watercolor illustration, subtle details, focus on texture and atmosphere.

I was about to leave when I saw something familiar behind the stone. I walked around to see what it was.

My coat was folded neatly on the grass.

No thank-you note. But I felt something soft brush against my cheek, and I knew someone was trying to say thank you.

A close-up watercolor illustration of the narrator standing near Julie Mackinnon’s grave, their head bowed in quiet contemplation. A gentle breeze creates movement in the narrator’s hair and clothes, causing their dark locks to softly frame their face. Their hands are clasped tightly together, and their expression is one of profound sadness. The scene conveys a feeling of a soft, unseen touch, as if Julie herself is present. The colors are muted and melancholic, reflecting the grief and loss. The gravestone is slightly blurred in the background, emphasizing the narrator’s emotional state. Watercolor illustration, focus on emotion, soft blending, and subtle details.

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The Night the Roof Blew Off

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