Red

Start writing here…A cold still night, a lucid moon.

It was the type of cold that reached into your bones, made you shiver, and wished you were at home bathed in steaming hot water. Each step became a prayer for warmth. The only thing to do is to keep moving, keep covering in your own body heat, keep heading toward home and the steady warmth of the hearth. The pavement of the sidewalks, hidden by the mountains of snow, was almost washed clean by the thousands of raindrops from the night before. People bundled up in coats with hoodies up, vibrant red scarves around their neck, and hands pressed against their pockets, wary of the slipperiness.

It was one of the coldest nights ever recorded in New York’s history. There was no wind, but the February air didn’t offer any mercy; it was harsh, creeping into the homes of the residents on Adelaide Road like a silent intruder. Every house was quiet and frigid. Their chimneys stood proud, fashioned from red bricks as puffs of smoke clouds from the blazing smoke chamber twirling heavenwards. The crackling fireplaces provided some of the only light on the street, gleaming out of the windows and pouring onto the sidewalk—all except number 254.

Outside the doorsteps stood Abraham Newman. He had this look about him, a look of a life well-lived, but the cataract in his eyes speaks otherwise. The cataract was so murky you could not tell his eye color. The wrinkles and folds of his skin were so pronounced and defined it was tough to tell how he looked in his youth. It was as though he was a party balloon almost bereft of its helium. In his palm lay exactly 27 keys—metal and skin together, as he felt their coldness. It had been 5 minutes of him picking each individual key to open his front door. Luckily, before he lost all hope, the 27th key unlocked the door.

As Mr. Newman entered the foyer that was the same as every other on the block, he was greeted by his doormat, “Welcome home,” a gentle reminder that he reached his destination. Once he placed his fuzzy coat and boot in their place, he dawdled toward the living room, naively past the wall of treasured photographs as if it seemingly had no connection to him. He looked forward to this moment: every night he would plop into the blue, cozy armchair that he would quietly sink into. And to the right side of him was an armrest with a fireplace remote. He pressed the red button, and suddenly the fireplace penetrated light into the dark reaches of his house and glowed with dancing radiant gold flame into the heart of the home. The perfect harmony of the hearth and cozy armchair was his cradle that put him to a goodnight’s sleep. He knew he had to do something, but not sure what. His body had already begun to relax. A subtle melancholy slowly surged through him. His eyelids fell shut; it was dark.