The Unspooling Drift

The first flakes didn’t drift so much as they descended, tiny white arguments against the grey sky, gaining conviction as they dropped. Johannes watched them from the kitchen window, his breath a faint, fleeting cloud against the chilled pane. His old flat was always colder by the glass, the heating struggling to hold back the encroaching chill. He liked it, the demarcation. Made it easier to tell where the inside stopped and the outside, the real world, began.

A hum from the ancient refrigerator was the only consistent sound, a low, guttural vibration that sometimes changed pitch when the compressor kicked in. It was a comfort, a constant. Unlike everything else. The snow, initially hesitant, was now falling with a purpose, already dusting the bare branches of the oak tree in the neighbour’s yard, clinging to the skeletal remains of rose bushes, forming a thin, pristine layer over the concrete path. Soon, everything would be softened, obscured, made new.

He turned from the window, the chill pressing against the back of his neck, and moved towards the small, scarred kettle on the hob. It was an act of ritual, the first snow demanding hot chocolate. Not the instant kind, but proper cocoa, made with milk and a tiny pinch of salt to deepen the chocolate’s earthy undertone. He had a chipped mug, a dull blue one that had lost its sheen years ago, his favourite for this exact occasion. The ceramic was thick, heavy, promising warmth. He ran water into the kettle, the sudden gush breaking the quiet. It sounded too loud, too insistent.

His thoughts, like the snow outside, began to gather. They weren’t clean, sharp thoughts, but fuzzy, indistinct impressions. Fragments of conversations. The smell of burning leaves, a specific kind of woodsmoke that always reminded him of autumns long past. A faint echo of a laugh, high-pitched and quickly cut short. He stirred the cocoa powder into a paste with a splash of milk, the spoon scraping against the bottom of the saucepan. He shouldn’t think about it. Not now. Not when the world outside was finally settling.

He poured the milk into the saucepan, the white liquid swallowing the dark paste, turning it into a swirling, muddy brown. He watched it closely, a small obsession, waiting for the first wisp of steam, the tell-tale shimmer on the surface that indicated heat. The spoon, he noticed, had a tiny bend in its handle, a relic from a forgotten mishap. He ran a thumb over it. Small inconsistencies, small imperfections. Like everything else.

A Certain Kind of Stillness

The warmth of the mug was immediate, a deep, radiating comfort that seeped into his palms. He carried it back to the window, the condensation from the hot liquid fogging the glass further. Through the blur, the world looked softer, even more dreamlike. He took a sip, the bitter-sweet warmth coating his tongue, easing the knot that had begun to form in his chest. Or maybe it was just a temporary reprieve. He was good at those. Reprieves.

A specific memory snagged, sharp and unwelcome, like a burr under the skin. It was from last winter, not the first snow, but a particularly heavy one. The kind that trapped you indoors, forced you to confront things. He’d been with Alex. They’d argued. Over something trivial, something about a map, a planned route that had gone wrong. But it wasn’t about the map. It was about everything else. The unspoken, the unaddressed, the way the snow had kept them both captive in the small, too-quiet cabin.

He remembered the exact moment Alex’s voice had cracked, a raw, almost childlike sound he hadn’t heard before. Alex had been tracing a pattern on the frosty windowpane, something that looked like a bird, or maybe a broken star. “Johannes,” Alex had said, without turning. “We can’t just… pretend this isn’t happening.” Johannes had kicked at a loose floorboard then, a meaningless gesture of frustration. He’d felt scared. He was scared. But it was also kind of… exciting? Stupidly exciting, the precipice. God, why did he always climb to the precipice?

He should have said something then. Anything. Instead, he’d just let the silence settle, heavy and cold as the snow outside. He watched as Alex’s shoulders slumped, the hand on the windowpane slowly lowering. That streak of condensation, that fading bird. It reminded him of last summer, too. His brother yelling at him for breaking his telescope. And now… was that Perseus? Or Cygnus? Whatever. Bright. He liked bright.

He didn’t know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second, when Alex was there. And then the silence had built into a wall between them, thick and impenetrable. Alex had walked out not long after the snow stopped, the silence echoing louder than any slammed door. And Johannes had stayed, surrounded by the remnants of what they had built, and what he had allowed to crumble.

The mug was cool against his lips now, the chocolate having lost some of its initial heat. He took another sip, the residue a faint, sweet grit on his tongue. What was stupid? Everything. School. His dad. Mom… she just… whatever. And then you look up. And the snow is still falling. It just keeps falling, blurring the lines of the houses across the street, making them look like something from a postcard, not a lived-in street with cracked driveways and overflowing recycling bins.

He saw Mara, his downstairs neighbour, struggling with her rubbish bin by the curb. She was wearing a ridiculously bright pink scarf, a splash of vibrant colour against the monochrome landscape. She waved, a small, tentative gesture, and Johannes raised his mug in response. He didn’t smile. Couldn’t. He just lifted the mug. She didn’t press. Mara never pressed. She understood unspoken things, a rare quality in anyone, especially these days.

His phone buzzed, a sharp, insistent vibration against the worn wooden countertop. He ignored it for a moment, savouring the quiet hum of the fridge, the gentle tap of snow on glass. Then, curiosity, or perhaps a morbid resignation, pulled him. He picked it up. A notification. A new message from an unknown number. Just three words. `He found out.`

The words hung in the air, cold and unforgiving, cutting through the comforting warmth of the hot chocolate and the illusion of peace offered by the falling snow. His breath hitched, a sudden, involuntary spasm in his throat. He stared at the screen, the glowing text stark against the dark background. The mug slipped from his fingers, thankfully landing softly on the rug beneath the window, spilling a dark, sticky circle onto the ancient fibres. The silence that followed was no longer comforting. It was a threat. The snow, he realised, had stopped falling.

Everything felt too still. The snow outside, pristine and silent, suddenly felt heavy, suffocating. He should be scared. He was scared. But it was also a familiar dread, a feeling he’d been living with for months, just beneath the surface, waiting for the crack. He stared at the dark stain spreading on the rug, a fresh mess on an already stained canvas, and knew, with a sinking certainty, that the quiet was over.