Yesterday, the snow just kept falling.
It blurred the edges of the houses on Willow Street, softened the jagged fences, and muffled the world into silence. Clara stood by her window, holding a chipped mug of tea, watching flakes tumble endlessly from a sky that had no end and no mercy.
She had always loved snow when she was younger. It meant snowmen with crooked grins, school cancellations, and her father laughing as he pulled her down the hill on a sled. But now, at thirty-five, snow meant long hours alone, roads closed, and a mailbox filling with letters she didn’t want to open.
The storm had started the night before, and the town had disappeared under it. The streetlights glowed faintly, like tired candles, and no footsteps marked the sidewalks. Clara had the uncanny feeling that she was the only one left awake in the world.
When the knock came, it startled her so badly she spilled tea onto her sleeve. Nobody knocked in a storm like this. She hesitated, heart thudding, before unlatching the door.
A man stood there, hair and beard heavy with snow, his coat stiff with frost. He was shivering but smiled faintly.
“Car broke down,” he said through chattering teeth. “Can I—just warm up a minute?”
Clara hesitated again. She didn’t know him, and she wasn’t in the habit of letting strangers inside. But the storm was brutal, and his face looked honest, desperate. She opened the door wider.
“Come in.”
The man stepped inside, stamping snow from his boots. He introduced himself as Daniel, a traveling photographer heading north. Clara fetched a blanket and set another mug of tea on the table. He held it with both hands as if it were the last warm thing in the world.
For a while, they sat in silence, the storm pressing against the windows. Then Daniel spoke, his voice quieter than the wind. “Funny how snow can make you feel trapped and safe at the same time.”
Clara looked at him, surprised. That was exactly how she felt, though she had never put it into words. They talked after that—about his photographs of empty barns and wide highways, about her job at the library, about the loneliness that sometimes came with small towns. Hours passed unnoticed.
By the time the snow stopped, dawn was streaking the horizon in pale pinks. The world outside was remade—every rooftop and tree branch heavy with brilliance. Daniel stood, pulling on his thawed coat.
“Road crews will clear the highway soon,” he said, but there was reluctance in his voice.
Clara walked him to the door. She wanted to say something—ask him to stay longer, or promise to see him again—but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she watched as he trudged back toward the white horizon, a figure swallowed slowly by the morning light.
She closed the door, but for the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone. The storm had passed, leaving behind something unexpected—hope, fragile but alive, like a small flame against the snow.
Therapy Bits 
Talk to me! I love comments!