Ghost Snow

Leaf stared at the mug in his hands, tracing the faint crack that spiderwebbed across its ceramic side. The tea inside, a chamomile blend Courtney had insisted on, had long since gone cold, a thin film congealing on its surface. He hadn't touched it. Hadn't really *seen* it, not truly, for the last hour, maybe more. His gaze was fixed on nothing, past the chipped rim, through the window, where the first heavy flakes of the evening were starting their slow, deliberate descent. Each one seemed to hit the glass with a whisper, like a tiny accusation.

Courtney moved from the kitchen, a stack of freshly folded laundry balanced precariously in her arms. Her movements were soft, practiced, designed not to startle. She paused in the doorway to the small sitting room, the lamplight catching the auburn highlights in her hair. She watched him, as she often did these days, with a quiet, analytical worry etched around her eyes. He was a statue, a monument to something lost, and she was the wind trying, futilely, to erode its edges.

"Still on that mug, eh?" she asked, her voice deliberately light, but with a thread of something tighter beneath it. She started stacking the clean jumpers and trousers onto a worn armchair, the fabric rustling softly.

He didn't twitch. "Hmm? Oh. Yeah." His response was a sound, not a word. He cleared his throat, a dry rasp. The silence stretched, uncomfortable, brittle.

"The snow's coming down heavier now," Courtney continued, trying again, her fingers fumbling slightly with a thick woollen sock. "Think it'll settle? The forecast said a proper dusting this time. Not just that half-hearted slush we had last week."

Leaf finally shifted, just a fraction. His gaze dropped to the forgotten mug. "Right." He picked it up, feeling the residual chill of the stoneware against his palms. "Yeah. Probably." He didn't even look at the snow, not really. It was just white. A blank canvas for whatever his mind decided to paint.

"You okay?" Her voice was softer now, the attempt at lightness abandoned. She walked over, slowly, and sat on the armrest of his chair, not touching him, but close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from her.

He sighed, a long, shaky exhale that seemed to deflate him further. "Yeah. Just… tired." It was a lie. It was always a lie. He wasn't tired. He was haunted. This time of year, it was always worse. The ghost of pine needles and burnt sugar. The phantom echo of carols. He could almost smell the cheap tinsel, metallic and sweet, like a wound.

A Thread of Tinsel and Ash

His eyes drifted to the mantelpiece, bare save for a couple of dusty paperbacks and an antique compass. Courtney had subtly, gently, removed the few holiday decorations they'd put up in previous years. A small concession to his aversion. But one thing remained. A tarnished, silver bell ornament, no bigger than his thumb, caught on a loose thread of the heavy curtains. It must have fallen from a box, overlooked.

He reached for it, his fingers clumsy, almost knocking it off. The small, cold metal felt familiar, weighty. He remembered. The year… no, not just a year. *That* year. The year the bell had been new. Bright. Polished. His sister, Lily, had polished it herself until it gleamed, a ridiculous amount of effort for a ten-year-old. She'd been so proud, hanging it on the lowest branch of their monstrosity of a tree. The tree that had shed more needles than actual pine-scent.

The memory splintered. Not just the bell. The *sound* of it. A sharp, clear ding. Then a crash. Not the bell crashing. Something else. Glass? His own voice, high-pitched, calling her name. And his father, yelling, a panicked roar that still, even now, felt like a physical blow to his chest.

"Leaf?" Courtney's hand settled on his arm, light, tentative. Her touch pulled him back, just a little, from the precipice of the memory. The bell clinked against the cold mug. He hadn't even realised he was still holding it. His knuckles were white.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his voice hoarse. He let the bell drop back onto the mantelpiece, where it spun briefly, catching the faint light from the window, before settling inert. Just a piece of cheap metal.

Courtney squeezed his arm gently. "It's… it's almost Christmas, isn't it? Just a few more days."

He flinched. The words were simple, innocuous, yet they felt like a physical assault. Christmas. He hated Christmas. Hated the forced cheer, the bright lights, the way everyone pretended everything was fine, or tried to make it fine. "Don't," he said, the word sharper than he intended. "Please, Courtney. Just… don't."

Her hand retracted, slowly. He felt the cold where she'd been. The silence returned, this time charged, thick with unspoken resentment. He knew he was hurting her. He knew he was pushing her away. But the alternative… the alternative was to let the tide of memory sweep him away entirely, to drown in the cold, dark water of it.

The Unspoken Language of Grief

He stood, abruptly, the mug clattering against the small, scarred side table. "I'm going to… check on the fire." It was an excuse. A clumsy, transparent excuse. The fire was fine. He just needed to move. Needed to break the quiet, the heavy, suffocating quiet.

He knelt before the hearth, poking at the smouldering logs with the iron poker. Sparks flew, brief, ephemeral fireworks. He felt Courtney's gaze on his back, a burning weight. He could almost hear the questions she wasn't asking. *Why won't you talk to me? Why do you shut me out? Don't you see I'm trying?*

"You know," she said, her voice low, strained, "sometimes I think… sometimes I think you actually prefer it this way. All of it. The darkness. The quiet. Like it’s a penance."

The poker clanged against the grate. He gripped it, his knuckles aching. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Her voice rose slightly, a tremor of frustration finally breaking through her carefully maintained composure. "You don't talk, Leaf. Not about *her*. Not about *that day*. Not about anything that matters. It's like a wall. And I'm just… hitting it, over and over again."

He turned, slowly, his knees popping. He saw the tears glistening in her eyes, unshed, but there. He felt a familiar surge of self-loathing. He was doing this to her. He was always doing this to everyone who cared. He watched the tiny, almost imperceptible quiver in her lower lip, the way her shoulders hunched inwards, a small, defensive gesture.

"I… I can't," he whispered, the words tasting like ash. He wanted to explain. Wanted to tell her about the static in his head, the way the colours faded around the edges when he thought about it. The smell of chlorine and wet wool, still vivid. The small, red sled, overturned in the snow. But the words wouldn't form. They were stuck, frozen solid in his throat.

She stood up then, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, a gesture both dismissive and profoundly weary. "Fine," she said, her voice flat. "Then don't. Just… don't. I'll be in the bedroom. Try to get some sleep."

She left him there, kneeling by the fire, the dying embers casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The quiet returned, heavier now, burdened by the unspoken words, by the raw pain she'd laid bare. He remained there, staring into the heart of the embers, watching the last vestiges of warmth fade. He thought of Lily, her laughter bright as the newly polished bell. Her face, flushed and excited, shouting 'faster!' as he pulled her on the sled, down the hill behind their old house. The rush of wind. The sudden, sickening lurch. The crack.

He closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against them until colours exploded behind his eyelids. He could still feel the rope, rough against his gloved hand. Could still feel the sharp, precise *tug* as it slipped free.