It began with a whisper. The kind of sound you can only hear when the world is holding its breath. Ellie stood at her kitchen window, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, as the first flakes drifted lazily from the sky. They danced in spirals, catching the glow of the streetlight, tiny miracles of nature spinning down to earth.
The town seemed to change in an instant. The hum of passing cars softened, and the chatter of late-night dog walkers faded. Even the wind, sharp and biting moments ago, quieted as if to let the snow speak.
Ellie pulled her wool coat from the hook by the door and stepped outside. The air smelled clean, crisp, and faintly metallic—a scent she hadn’t realized she’d missed. The snow had begun to accumulate on the ground, transforming the cracked pavement and withered gardens into something magical.
She walked to the park at the end of her street, where the old oak trees stood like sentinels. Their branches, barren just yesterday, now wore a delicate frosting. The playground was empty, its swings still and covered in a fine layer of white.
Ellie knelt and scooped up a handful of snow. It was soft and light, powdery against her skin. For a moment, she was seven years old again, building forts with her brother, their laughter ringing through the yard. She could almost hear it now, carried by the muffled quiet of the snowfall.
She stayed there for a while, watching as the snow thickened, blanketing the world in stillness. The park glowed under the moonlight, each snowflake catching the silver beams before joining its companions below.
By the time Ellie turned to walk home, her footprints were the only marks in an untouched sea of white. She smiled, her breath clouding the air, and thought about how the snow had a way of making everything feel new again.
As she reached her door, she paused to look back. The snow was falling heavier now, a quiet promise that by morning, the world would wake to a fresh start.
Michael J McCluskey 