It's cold outside.
Winter time. Wet. Covered in snow. I walk down the chilled steps, seeking shelter from the breeze.
The house front has stood the test of time. Ice may extrude from its ancient spruce, tearing at it, yet it remains.
I reach out for the door handle. It's locked. Oh no.
I'm not going to survive out here in the cold. I scurry to the windowsill. The glass of the window is embalmed with a thin sheet of frost.
I peer inside. There's nothing but a scattered arrangement of two chairs and a table. A fireplace located to the side keeps the room at a cosy temperature, to my envy.
A figure emerges from the window's blind-spot, taking a seat and haphazardly resting their legs on the table. Squinting through the white-ish filter of the window, I recognise the figure to be... me?
I squint again. I was mistaken. The figure is familiar, but no names come to mind.
Yet another figure appears. They too are familiar. Like a lost friend, whose friendship had kindled and blazed in the past, yet burnt out long ago. Swept under the blanket of the cold.
They are chatting. It's inaudible. But it feels... empty. There's no inflecting in either person's voice. It's distant. Polite, but unfeeling. Genial, but deceitful.
I rush back to the front, and knock. Silence.
I knock again. More silence.
Returning back to the window, I can see them shaking hands. The first figure exits the room. There's a foreboding silence as the other person waits patiently.
They walk back to the chairs. They sit in the first person's chair, loosely placing their feet on the table.
I'm out of energy. I knock on the window, with a slight force of wrath, but too weakened by the cold to cause damage. This time the noise is more pronounced. We make eye contact.
But I am ignored. The person pulls out a newspaper and starts reading, warming themselves with the fire place.
Feeling the frostbite on my skin, I crawl through the snow towards the door. Struggling against the might of the ice, I wrench the doormat upwards. There's a key. But it's too late. The cold is endlessly hovering over me, like a vulture waiting for another carcass.
I hold onto the key with all the tension I can muster. My muscles lift me up in a final, desperate attempt. It's too late.
I let the breeze carry my body back to the snow-carpet floor. I clench the key as the snow piles on.
There's more to the story. But that's for another time (this may become a series).
