Once more, my prompt came from writing.com.
Write a story or poem in which a mountain village wakes up to find that overnight, the season’s first snow has fallen in strange, perfect shapes — spirals, symbols, and patterns no one can explain. A child claims the snow is trying to tell them something. What happens?

The village of Kaelcrest awoke to the first snowfall of the season. This time, something was different. The thick snow blanketed the world in a peculiar, ethereal hush. As villagers emerged from their homes, blinking in the frosty light, their eyes focused on the strange patterns spun across the ground—not the white drifts they expected.

Spirals, sharp and perfect, whorled from every tree, curling in dizzying, symmetrical loops. Along the edges of the path, delicate symbols—some like ancient runes, others like patterns from a forgotten dream—pulsed in the cold air. No one spoke, unsure whether they were still asleep, caught in a shared vision.

But then a child spoke.

“I know what it is,” said Linnea. Not yet six, her breath huffed in the frigid morning air. She stood at the edge of the village square, staring down at the spiral patterns with wide eyes. Her small hands, gloved in wool, reached out as if to touch the shapes. “It’s trying to tell us something,” she said, her voice a quiet certainty.

The villagers exchanged nervous glances. This snowfall wasn’t like any they had ever seen. The patterns weren’t natural. They couldn’t be. Old Tomas, the village blacksmith, squinted at the snow with a furrowed brow, thick hands resting on the top of his cane.

“Foolishness.” But even he could not shake the unease that settled in his bones.

Linnea pulled off a glove and bent down, tiny fingers brushing the symbols at her feet. As she touched the symbol, a strange pulse vibrated through the ground—a whisper, faint but undeniable, as if the snow itself were alive, speaking a language only she heard.

“The snow is calling us,” she said again, louder this time. Her voice carried across the village square, drawing the attention of more people. “It wants us to follow.”

And follow they did, led by the small girl whose certainty was unnerving. Linnea, with her bright eyes and old wisdom no one understood, traced a path through the village, boots crunching in the fresh snow. The villagers—some with fear, some with fascination—trailed behind.

They approached the edge of the forest, where the trees grew thick and tall, their gnarled branches casting long shadows. The snow here was even stranger—in perfect concentric circles, as if someone had drawn them with deliberate care. At the very center of the largest circle was a shape—a mark—something they’d all seen before, but not for many, many years.

It was a sign of the old ones. A symbol from a time long forgotten, when the village had been young and the mountains were wild. It had last appeared centuries ago, when the winds howled and crops failed. The elders recited the tales as legends and myths.

Linnea stood before the mark, and as the others watched, she knelt. The surrounding air hummed as she pressed her palm to the snow.

Without warning, the ground beneath her hand shuddered.

The snow rippled as if something moved beneath it. A low groan filled the air, coming from deep within the earth. The villagers backed away, hearts thudding in their chests, but Linnea remained still. Eyes closed, tiny face calm.

In the next instant, the snow parted. A long-forgotten passageway, hidden beneath the earth for generations, opened before them. The stone steps, slick with ice, led down into a darkness that beckoned.

A breathless silence fell over the villagers. Only Linnea spoke, her voice quiet but strong.

“The snow wants us to remember.”

With a hesitant glance at one another, the villagers made their way down into the cold, drawn by something they could not name. Behind them, the spiral patterns in the snow remained—perfect and unchanged. A story written in frost and ice, waiting for them to read it.

As they descended into the shadows, snow continued to fall. And deep beneath Kaelcrest, the mountain stirred.