Frosted Windows

The air was cold. A chilly breeze whistled through the air, and snow fell onto houses and their roofs. Dragonets pressed their snouts against the windows, drawing pictures in the mist that had formed on the inside. Smiles, penguins, snowflakes, all sorts of things.

Frosty Glass wasn't drawing. She was writing. She sat at her desk, made of spruce wood, the legs carved intricately. She was bent over her notebook, scribbling short stories of her own, in messy writing, neat printing, beautiful cursive. Little doodles of her characters were in the margins of the notebook, helping her describe them.

Her stomach grumbled, and she got up to get something to eat.

The notebook is wide open, and one story is written, though unfinished:

Happiness