With some sandwiches made out of turkey spam and a flask full of earl grey, her day begins.
It's been a silent week. With the short days of December feeling long due to a lack of things to do, weekends don't feel all that special in small towns. When the grounds start to get covered in thin layers of snow, and the sky stays grey and cold, people pack their bags and move towards the city. Families, friends, and clusters of loved ones wait under the illuminating fairy lights that light up the city skies. Who would want to spend their days holed up in a town where Christmas comes slow? The place gets barely lit up with the few numbers of houses lining up the area. No one likes a dark holiday. And those who do stay, cover themselves up in blankets and stay indoors. Santa never comes early around these parts of the town.
Slow steps on the frosted sidewalks leading towards the forest are a quiet endeavour. It's not really a bright idea to walk around when it's minus two degrees out, but it has turned into a habit for her by now; a ritual, a form of mechanical movement that is done subconsciously without fail, every Saturday morning in December. So the steps are taken, and the journey is made.
It takes about an hour to reach the outskirts of the forest, and another thirty minutes to reach the broken pier that's hanging for dear life over the lake. The rusty old woods are now frozen and cold to the touch. It feels like it's only the ice that is still holding it together, preserving the broken structure along with all the memories it has painted on its broken boards.
With a scarf-covered face and gloves-covered hand, taking a seat on the pier is the next step, letting her feet dangle over its edges, just above the ice-cold water. It's an area where there is barely any sound at times like this. Summer, along with its clatters, is long gone. There is no one within miles to be seen but the white snow.
With the grey sky shove and the grey lake below, time moves at a languid pace. The smoke from her cigarette matches the snow on the ground. The ashes match the sky.
And her eyes, matches the soil that's now buried under three inches of white.
Solitude, like a stalker, stands right under a willow tree. His eyes are hollow and worn out, his skin pale and blue.
He stands quietly as the sandwiches vanish and the flask turns empty, then he silently follows her back, down the narrow path, down the frost-covered sidewalks, all the way to her home, promising to keep her company until life blooms back.