In the spring of 1979, the island of Cadera shimmered under the endless Caribbean sun, its lush hills draped in emerald green and surrounded by waters as clear as glass. The fishermen's boats bobbed along the shore, their sails unfurling in the early morning breeze. Life here had a rhythm - a steady beat of laughter, work, and tradition, where nothing unusual ever happened, and the islanders preferred it that way. But on one peculiar morning, everything changed.

Nessa woke before dawn, her usual routine. The warmth of the early sunlight barely touched the horizon as she stepped barefoot onto the porch of her small house, her nightdress billowing gently around her legs. The air, as always, was thick with the scent of salt and ripe fruit. She stretched, her bones creaking with the familiar ache of a woman past forty, and gazed up at the sky.

That's when she noticed it.

A strange, white dust floated lazily in the air, catching the light of the rising sun. At first, Nessa thought her eyes were playing tricks. She rubbed them hard, then blinked. No, it was real. Tiny white specks were drifting down from the sky, settling on the banana leaves and hibiscus petals, on rooftops and clotheslines. They sparkled like glitter, as if the heavens themselves had showered the island with magic.

"Is that? snow?" she whispered aloud, incredulous.

Nessa had never seen snow in her life, only heard stories from returning islanders who'd spent time in England or the United States. Snow wasn't something that happened here, in Cadera. It was a tropical island - hot, humid, blessed with sun and trade winds. But here it was, falling softly, lightly, like a dream.

She called out to her husband, Jerome, who was still inside sleeping. "Jerome! Come look at this!"

Jerome emerged groggily, rubbing his eyes. "What is it now, woman? What you shouting about at this hour?"

Nessa pointed to the sky, the little flecks still descending. Jerome squinted, stepped out into the yard, and held his hands out. A few of the white particles landed on his dark skin. He sniffed the air, but there was no smell, no sense of anything wrong.

"Snow?" he asked, incredulity mixing with amusement. "In the Caribbean? Nah, must be dust or something from the mainland."

But Nessa shook her head. "Not dust. Look at it. Ain't no dust like that."

The word spread quickly through the village. By mid-morning, people were gathered in the streets, some laughing, some in awe. Children danced through the soft, white haze, their mouths open as if to catch the flakes on their tongues, while elders sat on their porches, murmuring to each other about omens and the end of days. No one could explain it, but no one seemed afraid either. It felt surreal, like a blessing from the gods.

But not everyone was celebrating.

At the edge of the village, past the fields where the sugarcane grew tall, Old Man Micah stood at the foot of the mountain, staring up at the sky. His face, wrinkled and sun-beaten, bore a look of grim understanding. The mountain, they called it La Soufri?re, had always been quiet, sleeping peacefully since anyone could remember. But Micah had lived long enough to know the signs. The tremors that had rattled the ground a few days ago, barely noticed by the others. The strange, sulfuric smell in the air, masked by the sweetness of the sugarcane. And now, this - the ashfall.

This wasn't snow.

La Soufri?re had awoken.

Micah turned, hobbling as fast as his old legs could carry him, back toward the village. He needed to warn them. But as he reached the edge of the fields, he saw something that made his heart sink. In the distance, the villagers were coughing - small, hacking coughs that seemed to worsen with each breath. Some of the children had already stopped running, doubled over, their tiny bodies shaking. The adults were wiping their eyes, red and watery, unaware of the danger they were in.

He arrived breathless at Nessa's house, where a small crowd had gathered, some of them laughing, others concerned.

"Micah!" Nessa called out, "What you think this is? Some kinda miracle?"

Micah shook his head, his voice hoarse and urgent. "That ain't snow, Nessa. It's ash. The mountain's angry. We need to leave."

The laughter stopped. The crowd fell silent, eyes turning toward the mountain in the distance, its peak now obscured by a growing plume of smoke. The realization was slow, creeping into their minds like a cold shadow. This was no winter wonderland. This was death in the air.

Before anyone could react, the ground trembled beneath their feet. It was slight at first, a faint shiver, but then it grew stronger, the earth rumbling with a deep, guttural roar. La Soufri?re was speaking, and its voice was filled with fury.

"Get your families!" Micah shouted. "Get to the boats!"

Panic set in. The villagers, once entranced by the beauty of the falling ash, now scrambled to gather their loved ones. Mothers called for their children, fathers rushed to secure what little they could carry. The once peaceful village was now a scene of chaos, as the sky darkened with smoke and ash rained down in thick, choking waves.

Nessa grabbed Jerome's hand, pulling him toward their house. "We need to go! We need to get to the sea!"

Jerome, still processing what was happening, nodded and ran inside to grab their son, Peter. The boy, only eight years old, was coughing violently, his eyes red and swollen. Nessa felt a pang of fear as she held him close, whispering that everything would be okay, though she wasn't sure if it was true.

They joined the throngs of villagers heading toward the beach, where the fishing boats waited. The air was thick with ash now, a suffocating blanket that clung to their skin and filled their lungs. The mountain roared again, louder this time, a sound that echoed through the valleys and sent birds fleeing into the darkened sky.

As they reached the shore, Nessa looked back at her home - her beautiful island, the only place she had ever known. The once vibrant landscape was now shrouded in grey, the trees bowed under the weight of the ash, the sea reflecting the darkened sky. It was as if the world itself was ending.

Micah was already at the docks, helping the villagers into the boats. His face was set with determination, though his eyes held a sadness that mirrored Nessa's own. They were leaving behind more than just their homes. They were leaving behind a part of themselves.

"We need to go now," Micah urged, pushing them toward the boats.

They piled in, as many as the small vessels could carry. The fishermen rowed furiously, their muscles straining as they fought against the churning sea. The island, once a paradise, now seemed like a distant, unreachable dream.

As they sailed farther from the shore, Nessa held Peter close, his small body shaking against hers. She watched as the mountain loomed behind them, its peak obscured by the ever-growing plume of smoke and ash. La Soufri?re rumbled again, sending another wave of tremors through the earth, as if in warning.

And then, with a deafening roar, the mountain erupted.

A massive plume of fire and ash shot into the sky, lighting up the darkened heavens with an eerie, hellish glow. The sound was unlike anything Nessa had ever heard, a terrible, primal scream that shook the very air. The ash cloud expanded, swallowing the island in its suffocating embrace.

The sea grew rougher, the waves rising as if trying to escape the devastation. Nessa clutched her son tighter, her heart pounding in her chest. She had no idea what the future held - whether they would survive the night, whether they would ever see their island again. But for now, all they could do was sail forward, into the unknown.

As the boats drifted farther out to sea, the island of Cadera disappeared into the ash, swallowed by the anger of the mountain. What had begun as a morning of wonder had turned into a night of terror. And as Nessa stared into the horizon, she couldn't help but think about the irony of it all.

It hadn't been snow at all.

It had been ash. Lethal, suffocating, and final.