Alone in the Snow

I can’t look away.

Her body is cold and stiff. She’s wearing a black dress that she always wore on special occasions. Memories flood my mind, unwanted but unstoppable. The way she laughed, how our home felt full with her in it, the scent of her perfume that lingered even after she left a room. The scarlet roses on the kitchen windowsill are always fresh, always her.

Even in death, she is elegant. Peaceful.

A warm hand rests on my shoulder. Her father. His face is hard, unreadable- the face of a man who has seen too much, and learned to bury his grief deep.

“C’mon,” he says, voice low, “Let her rest now,”

My eyes burn. I sniffle, rubbing at them with the sleeve of my jacket, then turn to follow him outside. The air is sharp, with a cold breeze. A crowd of people linger in the yard, offering condolences. I don’t hear them. I don’t acknowledge them. I keep walking until we reach the truck.

“Are you gonna be okay to drive?” he asks.

“Yeah,”

I move to shake his hand, but he pulls me into a hug instead. I don’t stop him. My body trembles, my throat tightens, and when we step back, his eyes are red too.

“You’re a good man,” he says.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

I climb into the truck, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. I take a deep breath, letting it stretch through my chest. Then, I turn the key. The engine rolls, then roars, and I pull away from the house.

The road winds through the thick forest surrounding my hometown. The tires hum against the pavement, the occasional vehicle breaking the silence. The highway narrows into a single lane, cutting against the pavement, cutting through the trees like a scar.

I ease off the gas as I coast down a hill, passing over a small bridge where a creek runs below. At the other side, something moves.

A large brown shape lifts its head.

I slow the truck, eyes locking onto it- a bull moose, standing at the edge of the road. Its antlers are rough, jagged, red-streaked where the velvet has shed. It watches me, unmoving. The weight of its gaze follows me home.

When I get home, the air feels stale, the space hollowed out. I close the door behind me, letting my eyes drift over the quiet rooms. The color seems muted, drained. The only thing still full of life are the small roses on the kitchen windowsill. The last thing she cared for.

I grab the watering can and pour just enough to moisten the soil. My fingers graze over the soft petals.

I sigh.

The fridge is empty, its content reduced to three eggs, some butter and a single slice of cheese. I make do, scrambling the eggs, toasting some bread. I eat in front of the TV, flipping through channels until I settle on a cartoon, bright and ridiculous. It doesn’t make me laugh, but it distracts me for a little while.

I wake up to static.

The room is dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the television. A stiffness sits in my neck from sleeping at an awkward angle. I shift, feeling the empty plate slide off my lap.

I blink, groggy, wiping away the dried drool on my cheek. My eyes flick to the clock on the wall.

2:53 AM.

I push myself off the couch with a heavy sigh, stretching my arms overhead. I gather the plate and fork, placing them on the counter. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.

As I move to shut off the kitchen light, something catches my eye.

The roses.

They’re wilting. Only slightly, but enough to notice. The petals droop, their edges curling inward, browning. That wasn’t how they looked earlier.

I frown. Maybe I overwatered them. Maybe they’re just dying.

I decide to deal with them later, flicking off the lights. Climbing into bed, I hesitate before lying down. The mattress feels too cold. The space beside me feels wrong. I roll onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut.

Sleep finds me quickly.

Knocking pulls me from my dreams.

It takes me a moment to process where I am. The morning light seeps through the gap in the curtains, flooding the room with warmth.

Another knock.

I throw on a shirt and stumble toward the door, rubbing at my eyes, “Coming!” I call.

I swing it open to find two familiar faces waiting on the other side.

“Hey, bro,” Manny says, “How you holding up?”

“Hey, guys,” I yawn, “I’m alright. What time is it?”

“Quarter past eleven,” Jude says. He raises a brow, “You just getting up?”

I glance over at the clock and realize he’s right. I slept longer than I meant to.

“Yeah…” I step aside, “Come in. Coffee?”

I set down three mugs on the tables, letting the warmth of the drink wake me up. The conversation is light, easy, until Manny shifts the topic.

“We were thinking,” he says, “That you could use a break from… all this,”

I look at him.

“A change of scenery,” Jude adds, “get away for a bit, clear your head,”

I already know where this is going.

“Camping,” I say.

Jude nodes, “Just a few days. The outpost. You know, the one I fixed up last summer,”

I stare into my coffee. I haven’t left the house for anything but the funeral. Haven’t wanted to. But sitting here in silence, I feel the weight of everything pressing in.

Maybe a break wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“Maybe,” I say.

Jude grins, “Don’t think too hard about it,”

They stand, grabbing their coats.

“See you around,” Manny says.

With my friends gone, the house is quiet again. I sip the last of my coffee, staring at the roses on the window sill. The petals seem duller, the edges curling in. I run my fingers over one of the stems absentmindedly, and a sharp sting makes me wince. I pull my hand back. A red balloon beads up on my fingertip. I curse under my breath and press my thumb over the wound.

As I wash it off under the sink, a cold breeze creeps up my spine and I shiver. I glance over my shoulder to see the front door is cracked open. I could have sworn I closed it, but maybe the latch was frozen and didn’t catch. I dry my hands and move to close the door. The air outside is brisk and fresh, it fills my lungs and sweeps the room. Maybe I should get outside, I recall my conversation with Manny and Jude. The house is too quiet and I can’t sit here all day.

I pull on my boots, slip into a winter coat and head to the truck. The engine rumbles to life, fighting against the cold. I wait with my hands on the wheel, letting the heater push out the stale air.

When the engine is warm, I pull out of the driveway, the snow crunching under the tires. The sky is a washed-out shade of blue, the kind that makes winter feel endless. The trees blur past, tall and bare, stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers.

The drive is uneventful. I stop at the grocery store, picking up the essentials- eggs, bread, coffee, and a few canned goods. I find myself lingering by the butcher longer than necessary, staring at the fresh cuts of meat without really seeing them. The cashier scans my items in silence, offering a polite nod as I pay.

On the way back I keep my eyes on the road, but my mind drifts. I pass the turnoff that leads to the cemetery. For a second, I consider stopping, but I keep driving.

Then, up ahead, the road bends. I know this curve too well. My knuckles turn white as I grip the wheel.

This is where it happened.

The guardrail is still dented, the impact twisted into the metal like a scar. Snow has piled up along the edges, softening the scene, but I see it clearly in my mind- the flashing lights, the shattered glass, the dark stain on the pavement before the snow covered it.

I force my gaze forward, my throat tightening. The truck keeps moving, carrying me past the place where my world ended.

By the time I get home, my body feels heavy, like I’ve been carrying something unseen. I put the groceries away, moving on autopilot. As I pass the kitchen window, I glance at the roses. They are becoming pale. My finger pulses at the sight.

Shaking my head, I pull off my coat and settle in, waiting for the silence to become normal again.

As the sun sinks below the trees, the shadows stretch long and thin across the snow, creeping like ink bleeds into fabric. The dim light filtering through the window casts jagged shapes on the wall, twisting as the wind stirs the naked branches outside. The house settles around me with faint creaks, the kind I used to ignore. Now, they feel loud.

I sit on the couch, half-watching the evening news, my hand resting on my knee, the sore spot on my finger throbs, a dull, irritating ache. I rub it subconsciously, but every touch sends a small stab up my arm. Annoyed, I bring it closer to my face. The skin around the prick is red and slightly swollen, a thin scab forming over the wound. It’s just a scratch, nothing serious, but it refuses to stop aching.

With a sigh, I stand and head to the kitchen, flicking on the light. The roses sit glumly, their petals now curling inward like clenched fists. I frown. They weren’t this wilted earlier, were they? Maybe I did overwater them. Maybe they were already dying, and I just hadn’t noticed.

The kitchen faucet grinds as I turn it on, the pipes rattling before releasing a stream of cold water. I rinse my hand under it, watching the scab darken under the moisture. The sting fades for a moment, only to return as soon as I dry my hands.

I glance at the clock, nearly ten. The day is dragging. The quiet feels heavier at night, pressing in from all sides. I consider calling Manny or Jude, but what would I even say? That I feel restless? That the house feels too empty, even though I lived in it alone before? That my wife’s favourite flowers are dying too fast?

I brush off the thought and return to the living room, flipping through channels until I find something mindless. A sitcom with a laugh track, the artificial joy grating against the silence. I try to focus, but my hand still stings. I run my thumb over the sore again, feeling the rough skin. Small, but persistent.

Eventually, exhaustion tugs at me. The clock reads midnight when I turn off the TV and stretch, rolling my shoulders to shake off the stiffness. The house groans again, the way old houses do.

I make my way down the hall, flicking off lights as I go. The bedroom is cold and as I slide under the blankets, I reach out instinctively to the other side of the bed. Empty. Cold.

I close my eyes and exhale, waiting for sleep to take me. But the last thing I’m aware of before drifting off is the pulsing ache in my fingertip.

Darkness stretches in every direction, thick and endless. At first, there is only silence. A void so deep it swallows every thought, every breath.

Then- a voice.

Soft, familiar, just a whisper.

“Come find me,”

I turn. There is nothing.

“Please,”

I take a step forward. My feet make no sound. The ground beneath me is not solid, not soft. Just there. I walk, though I don’t feel the motion.

Shapes begin to take form, shadows stretching upward into thin, spindly trunks. A forest. Tall, skeletal pines rise around me, their blackened bark twisting into the sky. Snow coats the ground, untouched, smooth as glass.

But I am not cold.

I reach out, and the air is empty. I can’t feel anything- not the wind, not the bite of winter, not the weight of my own body. It’s like I don’t exist here, not fully.

“Over here,”

Her voice again. Closer. A whisper through the trees.

I quicken my pace, stepping deeper into the forest. The pines are so tall they blot out the sky, their trunks packed so close together, closing me in. The snow beneath me should crunch, should sink under my weight, but it doesn’t. I don’t even leave footprints.

The air is still. No wind, no distant rustling. Just silence. And yet, the trees seem to shift when I’m not looking. The spaces between them stretch, narrow, rearrange. It’s like the forest is breathing.

“Please, I need you,”

I freeze, and the hair on my neck stands on end. The voice is just ahead, beyond the tangled limbs of two ancient trees. The bark twists and splits as if something has clawed deep into them.

A shape flickers between the trunks. A figure. Just out of reach.

I move toward it, weaving through the trees, but every time I think I’m close, it slips away, swallowed by the shifting shadows.

The branches seem to stretch lower now, as if reaching for me. Some are stripped bare, their ends jagged, splintered like broken ribs. Others are draped in something dark and heavy, swaying gently without any wind.

I keep walking, following the voice. But the further I go, the thinner the trees become, until suddenly, they end.

I step into an open field, vast and white, stretching out forever. The ground is featureless, an unbroken sheet of snow beneath a sky so black it feels alive, pressing down, smothering. There are no stars, no moon, just a void overhead, shifting, consuming.

I stop.

A sound reaches me, distant but growing. A dull, rhythmic pounding. Like hooves on frozen earth.

My breath quickens.

I hear it again, closer this time.

Then- a shape, tearing through the darkness.

A massive figure, galloping out of the void, its eyes hollow pits of shadow. Antlers jagged and dripping with something dark, something wet. Its breath comes in heavy , rasping clouds, curling into the air like smoke.

“I NEED YOU!” The voice screams.

It’s coming straight for me.

I try to move, but my legs won’t obey. The moose barrels closer, faster, its hooves hammering the ground, it’s twisted form growing larger and larger until it fills my entire vision-

I wake with a sharp gasp, heart pounding against my ribs. The room is dark, the air still, but I feel like something was just here, lingering at the edges of my mind, watching.

I sit up, breath unsteady, running a hand through my hair. The ache in my finger flares, a sharp sting that makes me wince.

The house is unnervingly quiet. I peek through the hall and into the kitchen, the flowers are dead.