“Someone told me I shouldn’t go to the top of the mountain because of a snowman,” I told her. “A snowman who lives up there.” Aunt Greta didn’t say anything. She handed me two mugs. I lifted them onto the cabinet shelf. “This man told me that if I met the snowman up there, I would never return,” I continued. My aunt let out a short, dry laugh. “Village superstition,” she muttered. I squinted at her. “Really?” “Of course,” she replied. “These tiny villages all have their scary stories. Someone was just having fun, giving you a little scare.”
