A Cardinal's Stillness

The grey light didn’t so much illuminate the room as just… exist, thin and watery, like something stretched too far. Juniper’s joints ached before she even opened her eyes, a dull throb in her knees, a stiffness in her shoulders from sleeping curled too tight on the lumpy sofa. The bed, the proper bed upstairs, felt like a museum exhibit these days. Too big, too empty. She let out a small, almost soundless groan, pushing herself up with a hand that felt clumsy, thick, and not entirely her own.

Her feet hit the cold floorboards with a soft thud. No one else to wake. No one to be quiet for. The thought wasn't a comfort; it was a weight, pressing down on her chest. A quick glance at the wall calendar, dog-eared and forgotten, confirmed it. December twenty-fifth. Christmas. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, a small, private defiance against the wave of sentimentality already cresting. No, not sentimentality. Grief. Always grief, just wearing a slightly different hat today.

She shuffled into the kitchen, the familiar path worn smooth by habit. The old fridge hummed, a low, consistent drone, the only conversation in the house. It needed defrosting. Badly. Frost bloomed on the freezer door in feathery patterns, like some kind of accidental art. Juniper fumbled with the ancient percolator, her fingers stiff, a slight tremor running through them. She knocked a half-empty mug – Liam’s mug, chipped at the rim, with a faded sketch of a trout – off the counter. It clattered to the linoleum but didn't break. Her breath hitched. Stupid. Stupid, stupid. Just a mug. Just a chipped mug.

The smell of stale coffee from yesterday’s forgotten grounds mingled with the faint, sharp tang of pine needles from the pathetic, half-dead tree she’d dragged in three days ago. It stood slumped in a bucket in the corner of the living room, a few haphazardly strung lights glowing feebly. She hadn't even bothered with ornaments this year. Almost. A single, small, wooden cardinal hung from a low branch, its painted red faded, one eye missing.

A Glimmer of Summer Snow

She reached for it, her thumb tracing the smooth, cool wood. The missing eye socket. Liam had carved it, a clumsy but earnest attempt, that first Christmas they'd spent in this cabin, years ago. He’d used a dull knife and swore under his breath the whole time, his big hands surprisingly delicate when he was focused on something. She could almost feel the warmth of his breath on her neck as he leaned over the rough workbench, the scent of wood shavings and his favourite cheap aftershave.

"It's... spirited," she'd teased, holding up the nascent bird, its head slightly too large for its body. He'd grumbled something, a playful growl, then snatched it back, refusing to give up. He’d spent a whole afternoon on it, fuelled by lukewarm beer and Christmas tunes that were probably two months too early.

"It'll be a masterpiece, you'll see," he'd insisted, wiping sawdust from his brow with the back of a hand smudged with pine sap. His hair, dark and perpetually a little too long, fell over his eyes. She remembered reaching out, brushing it back, her fingers lingering in the soft strands.

That Christmas had been loud. A good loud. The old vinyl player spinning scratchy jazz, the aroma of burnt turkey stuffing wafting from the oven, their clumsy attempts to dance in the tiny living room, tripping over each other's feet. He’d swung her around, her head thrown back, laughter bubbling up, real and unforced. He wore the hideous hand-knitted jumper she’d given him – emerald green with a giant, lopsided reindeer – and declared it his new 'fashion statement'. She’d felt his strong arms around her, the rough wool of the jumper against her cheek. Safe. So safe, then.

They’d opened presents by the sputtering fire, the flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. He’d given her a collection of old, leather-bound poetry books, knowing her obsession. She remembered him watching her face as she opened them, that soft, knowing smile playing on his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He loved watching her find joy in small things. And she… she loved watching him watch her. It was a loop, a feedback of quiet affection.

Later, they’d piled blankets high, drunk lukewarm mulled wine, and watched the snow fall outside, heavy and silent, just like this morning. Only then, it hadn't felt silent. It had felt full. Full of their breathing, the crackle of the fire, the occasional slosh of wine in their mugs. He’d traced patterns on her arm, his touch light, sending shivers through her skin, even through the thick sweater she was wearing. "Next year," he’d murmured, his voice thick with sleep and wine, "we'll actually get a proper tree. Maybe even some of those ridiculous tinsel strands."

Juniper closed her eyes, the ghost of his touch a phantom ache on her arm, the scent of pine and aftershave a cruel illusion. Next year. There was no next year. Just this year. Just this morning. Just this cold, empty hum.

Echoes in the Stillness

Her coffee, once made, was bitter and too strong. She didn't mind. The biting taste was a welcome anchor to the present, a small, sharp pain to focus on. She carried the mug to the living room, past the pathetic tree, and settled back on the sofa, pulling a threadbare wool blanket around her. It was Liam's blanket. Everything was Liam's. Or theirs. Never just hers, not anymore. The house felt like a skin she’d shed, or rather, that had been ripped from her. Too big. Too raw.

A quick flick of the worn remote brought the old television to life, a low murmur of Christmas carols filtering through the static. She watched, without really seeing, an animated snowman dance across the screen. Its cheerfulness felt like a personal insult. She reached for her phone, its cold metal casing a small comfort in her palm. Her finger hovered over a contact, a distant relative, someone who might offer a platitude or two. Her thumb brushed over the green 'call' icon, paused, then slowly, deliberately, she put the phone back down. What was there to say? 'Happy Christmas. I’m still here. Still broken.' No. Better just to be quiet.

The need for fresh air, for something beyond the four walls and the ghosts they held, became an urgent, physical craving. She pulled on her heavy parka, its lining still smelling faintly of woodsmoke from last winter. Her boots felt heavy, cumbersome, as she wrestled them on. Stepping outside was like stepping into a different world entirely. The air was a clean, sharp knife, scrubbing the stale interior from her lungs. It hurt, a glorious, exhilarating kind of pain. The snow, pristine and undisturbed, stretched out like a vast, white canvas.

She crunched through the fresh powder, each step a distinct punctuation mark in the profound silence. No wind. Just the almost imperceptible hiss of falling flakes and the distant, muffled sound of a snowplough, a mechanical leviathan working somewhere far off. Her breath plumed in white clouds, dissipating quickly into the still, frigid air. The world was stark, beautiful, and utterly indifferent.

Juniper walked to the edge of the small, frozen lake that bordered her property, its surface a sheet of dull pewter beneath the grey sky. She used to skate here with Liam. He’d always been better, gliding effortlessly, while she wobbled and cursed, laughing when she inevitably landed on her backside. He’d always pull her up, his hands strong and warm, brushing snow from her hair. She could almost feel the phantom sting of the cold ice against her cheeks.

She stood there for a long time, the cold seeping into her bones, trying to feel something beyond the familiar ache, the dull throb that had become a constant companion. The vastness of the snow, the quiet, the absolute aloneness – it was a mirror. But then, as she turned to head back, a flicker caught her eye. At the far edge of the frozen lake, near the stand of skeletal birch trees, where her property ended and the old logging road began, a single, sharp flash of crimson. It wasn't the cardinal. Not this time. Too bright. Too sudden. Like a flare in the dull, colourless landscape.

Her breath snagged in her throat. Her eyes narrowed, trying to pierce the flat light, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Just a trick of the light? Or something else, something out there in the vast, quiet expanse of snow that she hadn’t accounted for?