Atea

There were always spaces between the flakes of falling snow. Sliding in silence and sounding only at the stop, they hushed to her feet, held fast, and remained only a moment in the unmuted lamplight. Then the next flakes landed, pressing down and holding fast, obfuscating what came before.

She stood below the lamp's yellow halo, contemplating her next step. It seemed a shame to shatter the silence and risk setting all sorts of temporal wheels in motion when she could simply choose to remain frozen.

Yet somehow it just wasn't possible. There was too much warmth to be had, too many handsome smiles, too many crackling fires, too many steaming hot cups of what ever she please. And always there was that tropical breeze; she could smell it in the coldest of places.