It was snowing in the winter cold of the night. As the many snowflakes were falling down, ever so silently, one could only observe their solitude as much as their scattered dance in midair; Such bizarre combination of nostalgia and mystery; something as old as history and as refreshing as time. The whirling ooze of a frost would make one’s fingers curl and leave them with that frozen feeling of frost bite itch; the darkness, so still and mischievous, holding a reign so tightly over the night.
The room was warm enough since it had been positioned right above the heating room; besides, it was small enough to stay warm during such cold periods of the year. Not much furniture could be seen in the room, except for the basics; or things which they would consider as the basics anyways. She was locked up in the only other room in the place: the restroom. She was feeling restless and bitter, in pain and awfully full of sorrow. Her heart was paining and her soul could not bear it any longer; so she just opened the bathroom door, passed the figure lying lazily on the floor—now half asleep—and hurried outside once she had grabbed her heavy woolen coat.
The house was big enough. Or as some would see it, at least a tad bigger than enough; quite spacious one might suggest. The fire was making crackling sounds now and then while casting this warm glow all over the tall walls. One could sense the smell of something cooking in the kitchen stove. It smelt like a warm house on a winter night. And it was snowing outside; one could stand by the window for some time and just observe the billion snowflakes which would make their journey from heaven to these surroundings. The street looked as if it held a massive secret or a minor mystery for the least. The thick snow on the asphalt promised hardship for those who would walk the miles near or far. One would be grateful to have been inside a warm house, by the fire, by the window.
The older woman—a mother—opened the door and asked her in. she rushed horridly inside, shaking and trembling; her lashes under two small piles of white powder and her arms, put inside her side pockets holding the shrug of her weak shoulders. She sat quietly by the fire, without taking off her coat. I wasn’t there to listen or to see what she had to say or do. But eventually I came in and once I entered, the first thing which drew my attention was the nomad’s blindingly bright azure and gold scarf glowing against the fire glow; such contrast it made with her jet black hair and her darkened face. Sorrow was all over her face and I could hear her deafening silence very eloquently; as if all her pain was being enunciated somewhere among the crackling sounds of the fire. She sat there, quietly, for hours on end, looking into the never-ending tales of the fire, flickering right through her eyes, burning and turning into warmth and ash.
The mother was standing by the windowsill; holding a hot drink in hand. She was looking away, at the frozen trees; which had long stopped breathing and had turned into pieces of wood. She was thinking though, how they had always managed to be anything but pieces of wood and had proven her otherwise; time and time and again. So as she stayed by the windowsill, looking away at that frozen winter scene, she took a sip of that hot drink clutched in her hands and she smiled.