Jayme Lawson was, by all accounts, a perfectly ordinary woman. She lived in a small, perfectly organized apartment, worked a perfectly quiet job as a library cataloger, and took her perfectly bland lunch at precisely 12:17 PM each day.
She’d seen doctors. Specialists. A man who claimed to read auras and suggested she was “emotionally allergic to summer.” Nothing worked. So Jayme simply adapted. She wore snow boots in July, slept with a small fan pointed at her feet (the heat they generated was, paradoxically, unbearable to the rest of her), and avoided carpeted areas. jayme lawson the penguin
The only thing not perfectly ordinary about Jayme Lawson was her feet. Jayme Lawson was, by all accounts, a perfectly
They were cold. Not a little chilly, not the kind of cold you fix with a thick pair of socks. It was a deep, ancient, polar cold that radiated from her bones. Her toes were perpetually the color of a winter sky, and the floor around her favorite armchair was permanently damp from the slow melt of an invisible frost. Specialists
And so, Jayme Lawson, the perfectly ordinary librarian, became the Guardian of Winter. She still works at the library, but now her lunch break is spent freezing the local pond for skating lessons. And Popsicle? He sits on her shoulder, the most loyal, pea-stealing familiar a winter soul could ever ask for.