A Winter Sketch

The close was glass-icy. Deep troughs where tyres had skidded revealed a mirror glazing the gritty road. It was still – the rumbling of the city and motorway in the distance and the eerie chant of shivering wind chimes a little nearer. Ice clung to the window ledges, the bricks, the cars sleeping in their driveways. Voices scattered carelessly on the wind and frozen snow refused to move as blasts scraped at it. A black cat darted past. It skidded on the pools of frozen footprints and darted into the shadows. Above, the dark sky was emphasised by the white ground and stars glimmered halfheartedly in the backstage of dancing city lights. A warm blast from the room caressed my face and the radiator burnt me. I snuggled deeper into my sweater and dusted some ice off the sill. Somewhere, a door slammed. I withdrew.
“They haven’t come.” I said and sniffed quietly. I shut the window and ducked under the soft curtain.

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