England

We came from a place called England. A country of old. Not a specific city, I don't think so. Perhaps at first, but as more and more joined the exodus, that first city lost its meaning, if it even had any. To our elder, this place is a faint memory. To our youth, it is a place of legend.

Before the cataclysm hit and froze the entire world, a place existed, a lush island of green and warmth. A paradise on Earth, though it takes hell to realize that. Newfounders came from there, starting from the biggest city to gather their fellow countrymen and walked the sea in search of a safe haven.

Mythical land

As it is told, England was an evergreen land with high buildings and abundance of food and animals. People would go around with no fear of scarcity, free to pursue art as their life's calling. They could go outside in light clothes, enjoying the warmth coming directly from a giant ball of fire in the sky, called the Sun. Among all the tales about that land, this one is the least believable of all. As everyone knows, the sky is white as snow and darkens during storms, but no ball of fire can be seen even in the mildest weather.

How dreadful was the catastrophe for our ancestors to leave their homeland? It seemed they had it all, better than us even.

It is so difficult to believe that anyone would willingly abandon such a warm home, that many surmise they are still on the land of their origins, only buried under a thick layer of snow. Maybe they never left, and the catastrophe brought upon them is this winter that seems to never end.