The First White Hush

Mira wakes to the season's first snow, a silent, pervasive beauty that brings with it a tide of memories. A familiar face arrives, prompting a hesitant dance around the edges of a past loss.

The silence was the first thing. Not the usual urban hum, not the distant siren that often sang its lament past three in the morning. This was a thick, absorbent quiet, a muffling of the world that only came with a significant snowfall. Mira blinked, pushing the coarse duvet away from her face, one eye half-open against the grey-white light seeping around the edge of the blackout blind. It wasn’t a sunrise colour, but something softer, more diffuse.

A shiver traced its way up her spine before she even swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards, usually just cold, now felt like ancient river stone, pulling the heat from her soles. She padded to the window, her breath fogging the glass, and pulled the blind aside. Outside, the familiar street was gone. Everything was rounded, softened, utterly transformed under a dense, unblemished coating of fresh snow. It clung to the bare branches of the maple tree like frosted lace, heaped on the parked cars, and lay undisturbed on the pavement. The air inside the room, already cool, now carried a distinct, almost metallic scent—the clean, sharp smell of new winter.

She rubbed her arms, feeling the gooseflesh prickle. The kettle whistled a thin, reedy sound from the kitchen, a welcome disruption. Hot chocolate. It was an involuntary ritual, an instinct bred into her by decades of prairie winters and chilly mornings spent in her grandmother’s kitchen. The scent of melting chocolate, rich and dark, began to fill the small space, pushing back against the chill. She stirred it with a wooden spoon, watching the milk swirl into a deep, comforting brown. A stray thought, like a moth drawn to a lamp, flickered at the edge of her mind: Nôkom always used proper cocoa powder, none of that instant stuff. And a pinch of cinnamon, ‘for warmth,’ she’d say, even though Mira always suspected it was more for the smell.

The first sip was a small comfort, the sweet warmth spreading down her throat, settling in her chest. She carried the mug, cradling it in both hands, to the battered armchair by the window, sinking into its worn fabric. The window itself was a canvas. A tiny spider, caught in the change of seasons, had built a delicate, almost invisible web across one corner of the pane, now strung with minute ice crystals. She watched a single snowflake, distinct and perfect, spiral down and merge with the pristine layer on the sill. It was an impossible quiet, the kind that made her feel acutely present, yet also strangely untethered, drifting.

### A Blanket of Unspoken Things

It had been a morning like this. Two years ago, almost to the day. Not quite this early, but the same suffocating silence, the same unexpected blanket of white. She’d woken up then to the insistent ringing of her phone, the muffled voice of her father. *Nôkom.* The word had been a whisper, swallowed by the static, yet it had echoed in her small apartment louder than any scream. The hot chocolate in her hands felt suddenly heavy, its warmth a lie against the cold knot that tightened in her stomach. She could almost feel the weight of the old woollen blanket Nôkom used to drape over her knees, the rough texture of it against her worn jeans. Her grandmother had always had a particular way of looking at snow, too. Not just as a pretty sight, but as a covering, a kind of merciful forgetting, maybe. Or a reminder of what lies beneath.

Mira took another sip, the chocolate suddenly tasting faintly of ashes. She’d tried to distract herself then, just as she was trying now, by tracing patterns in the condensation on the window, the way the tiny droplets coalesced and ran. She hadn't cried much, not that day. It had felt too big, too encompassing, like the snow itself. Instead, she’d just moved through the day in a numb, detached way, answering questions, nodding, making sure her parents ate. Practical things. The emotional torrent had waited, a slow, insidious seep that continued to find new cracks to fill, even now.

A sharp rap on the door, three quick thuds, jolted her upright. The mug nearly slipped. Donovan. She hadn't expected him this early. He probably had an early lecture or something. Or just a good sense of when she needed a quiet interruption. She padded to the door, pulling a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her face still slack with morning quiet and lingering memory. The cold from the hallway hit her first, then Donovan, bundled in a dark blue parka, a dusting of fresh snow on his shoulders and hair, his cheeks flushed red.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said, his voice a low rumble, a wisp of vapour escaping his lips. “Figured you’d be up. Snow day perfection, eh?” He grinned, a quick flash of white against his ruddy face. He stomped his boots twice on the mat, shedding a small pile of melting crystals.

Mira managed a faint smile. “Didn’t expect you.”

“Had a feeling.” He shrugged out of his coat, hanging it carefully on the hook by the door, the scent of damp wool and winter air briefly permeating the small entryway. “Coffee. Or, knowing you, probably chocolate.” He glanced at the mug still clutched in her hands. “Knew it.” He made his way to the kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. He knew her rhythms too well, sometimes. It was comforting, sometimes irritating.

She watched him, her mind still back two years, in that silent house. Donovan had been there too, quietly, efficiently making food, answering the door, doing all the things she couldn't bring herself to do. He’d just *been* there. It was one of the many reasons she didn’t quite know how to feel about him, a complicated knot of gratitude and something warmer, more confusing.

“Anything for you?” he called from the kitchen, the kettle already starting its low hum again.

“Just… just whatever you’re having,” Mira replied, her voice a little softer than she intended. She sank back into the armchair, watching him move with an easy familiarity in her small space. He pulled out two more mugs, a dark blue one and one with a chipped rim, her favourite. He remembered. Of course, he remembered.

He brought her a fresh, steaming mug of hot chocolate, carefully placing it on the small coaster on the armrest. “Still looks like a postcard out there,” he commented, joining her at the window, not sitting, just leaning, his shoulder almost brushing hers. He took a long sip of his own chocolate, steam curling around his nose. “Remember that blizzard, first year? The one where the bus got stuck near the centre of town? We walked all the way back, nearly froze our toes off.”

Mira nodded, a ghost of a laugh escaping her lips. “You kept making snow angels on every pristine patch. And then complaining about the cold.”

“Worth it for the art,” he deadpanned, but his eyes were soft. He knew, she realised. He knew this kind of morning, this kind of snow, always did something to her. Triggered it. He wasn't overtly acknowledging it, not directly, but it was there, in the quiet, in the shared memory of a different, lighter winter.

### The Weight of Quiet

The new snow continued to fall, a steady, almost imperceptible drift. The sky remained a uniform, heavy grey. Mira stared out, past her own reflection, past the snow-laden street, trying to see beyond the surface of things. She thought of her Nôkom, her hands, gnarled with age and work, always kneading bread, or patching a quilt. The memory wasn't a sharp pain anymore, but a dull ache, a phantom limb that still yearned for contact. How did you process a person? Not an event, not a fact, but a whole, living, breathing person who was suddenly just… gone? The snow didn't cover that kind of emptiness; it just highlighted it.

Donovan shifted beside her, clearing his throat. “Are you… okay?” The question was gentle, almost hesitant, delivered with a casualness that barely masked its true weight.

Mira shrugged, the mug still warm in her hands. “Just… thinking. Snow always does that, doesn’t it? Makes everything quiet. Makes you think.” She gestured vaguely at the world outside, the pristine, untouched white. “Makes you feel like… anything could happen. Or nothing.”

He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. “It does,” he agreed. “Or it just reminds you of everything that already has.” He didn’t push, didn’t elaborate, just let the words hang there, a silent acknowledgement. He was good at that, Donovan. Sitting with the unsaid.

---

She remembered Nôkom, the last time they’d seen her truly animated. It had been autumn, a cool breeze carrying the scent of damp earth and falling leaves. Nôkom, despite her failing strength, had been out by the old willow, carefully tying small braids of sweetgrass, her hands slow but deliberate. Mira had watched her, thinking then that time was an endless thing, that some people were just always *there*. She’d been wrong. The winter had stolen her, quickly, quietly, just like this snow had fallen, covering everything before anyone had even fully woken up.

Donovan picked up a book from the small table beside the armchair, flipping through its pages distractedly. “You know,” he said, his gaze on the text but his tone still tuned to her. “My dad told me once, the first snow, it’s like the world pressing reset. A blank page. But the old lines are still underneath, just harder to see.”

Mira looked at him, really looked at him. His profile was serious, thoughtful. He wasn’t just talking about the snow. He was talking about her, about the things she carried, buried just beneath the surface. The hot chocolate in her mug had grown cool, a skin forming on its surface. The silence in the room felt heavy again, not comforting this time, but expectant. What would she write on that blank page? Or, more terrifyingly, what lines would inevitably bleed through from the past, no matter how much snow piled on top?

She didn’t answer him. She just watched a single, brave squirrel dart across the newly whitened lawn, its small, dark form a defiant speck against the overwhelming white. He was searching for something buried, something forgotten beneath the fresh layer. She felt a kinship with him, a quiet, unsettling understanding. There was so much beneath, and the new snow, beautiful as it was, only served to make the buried things feel heavier, more profoundly, enduringly lost.