The Weight of White

The first flakes weren't a storm, not yet. They were tentative, almost apologetic, swirling down from a sky the colour of unwashed slate. Sampson watched them from his window, a slow, silent invasion, each crystalline fragment erasing a sliver of the city’s hardened edges. The brickwork of the building opposite began to soften, its sharp corners blurring, the pavement below vanishing under a rapidly accumulating, pristine cover. It was only six in the morning, and the world outside was already forgetting itself.

He’d woken to a cold draught pushing through a crack in the sash window, a damp, metallic scent hanging in the air. The heating, he knew, would kick in eventually, groaning and clanking as it always did, but for now, the air in his small apartment held a particular crispness. He pulled the worn woollen blanket tighter around his shoulders, the coarse fibres scratching at his neck, and shuffled towards the kitchen. The linoleum felt like ice through his thin socks.

The ritual was automatic: old ceramic mug, chipped just above the handle, retrieved from the cupboard. Two generous spoonfuls of cocoa powder, dark and rich, smelling faintly of earth and nostalgia. Sugar, a less precise measure, just enough to cut the bitterness. Then the milk, poured straight from the carton, cold and white, before it went into the microwave, the low hum a comfortingly familiar sound in the quiet space. He stirred with a spoon that had lost its shine years ago, watching the powder dissolve into a swirling brown vortex, tiny bubbles rising to the surface.

Back at the window, the mug felt impossibly warm against his palms, a small, tangible anchor in the swirling quiet. He took a sip. Too hot, of course, the steam scalding his tongue, but the sweetness bloomed, a familiar childhood comfort. The snow outside was thicker now, swirling in earnest, a dizzying ballet. The usually garish neon sign of the corner shop, 'Patel's Provisions', was muted, its electric glow diffused into a soft, hazy halo. A lone car, an older model with a dented bumper, crawled past, its tyres whispering on the accumulating layer.

He should have said more. Or less. He couldn't quite remember. It had been autumn, golden leaves skittering across the pavement, that sharp, almost aggressive scent of decay in the air. Not like this. Not this clean, quiet erasure. Elian had been packing, shoving clothes into a duffel bag with a furious, almost violent energy. Every movement a statement. And Sampson, he’d just stood there, leaning against the door frame, watching. Like an idiot.

“You never say what you mean, Sampson,” Elian had said, the words clipped, precise, each one landing like a tiny stone. “You just… watch. Like I’m a particularly interesting specimen under glass.”

He’d wanted to argue. To shout. To say, *No, I’m scared, okay? I’m scared if I say it, you’ll leave even faster.* But the words had tangled in his throat, a thick, uncomfortable knot. He'd just shrugged, a pathetic, almost imperceptible gesture, and watched Elian zip up the bag, the sound painfully loud. The silence that followed was worse. It stretched, taut and brittle, until Elian’s hand was on the doorknob. And then they were gone.

The mug, still hot, was almost empty. The sugar had settled in a grainy layer at the bottom, a tiny, gritty reminder. He shifted his weight, his knee cracking faintly. He wondered if Elian ever thought about that day. If Elian regretted it. Or if it was just Sampson, alone in this small, snow-draped apartment, meticulously picking apart the threads of what was and what could have been. The guilt was a dull ache, constant, familiar.

The Unspooling Thread

He remembered one morning, a spring day, sunlight streaming through that very window, though it had been much cleaner then. Elian had been sketching, perched on the edge of his bed, charcoal smudging Elian's cheek. Elian had looked up, caught Sampson watching, and smiled, a slow, open, vulnerable thing that made Sampson's chest ache even now. “You know,” Elian had murmured, “you’re usually much more interesting than the landscape.” It had been a quiet compliment, profound in its simplicity, and Sampson had felt it then, that impossible, fragile connection. He’d messed that up, hadn’t he?

His gaze fell on a small, smooth grey stone sitting on the windowsill, tucked behind a wilting succulent. He’d picked it up from a beach trip they’d taken, the last one, just before the arguments had started. Elian had polished it with a corner of Elian's shirt, laughing, saying it looked like a tiny, frozen moon. Sampson reached out, his finger tracing its cool, unyielding surface. It felt heavier than it looked, a little anchor of memory.

The thought was an associative leap, the kind his mind made when it was trying to avoid something larger. Elian, the moon. The moon, the tides. The way things pulled and pushed, inevitably. He picked at a loose thread on his blanket, the wool giving easily, creating a small, unravelled curl. He was scared, still. Always scared. But also, a strange, quiet defiance was beginning to simmer. He wasn't just watching anymore. He was *seeing*.

A small figure, bundled in a bright scarlet coat, trudged past below. A child, probably, on the way to a snow day adventure, leaving a pristine line of small, perfect footprints in the freshly fallen powder. Each step a clear statement. Sampson thought about his own steps, or lack thereof. All those unmade choices, all those quiet observations instead of actions. The world didn't just happen to you. You happened to it. Or you didn't.

He drained the last of the hot chocolate, the gritty sweetness of the sugar lingering. The snow outside showed no signs of stopping. It kept coming, steadily, relentlessly, building up, changing the landscape. Muting the noise. Hiding the cracks. But underneath, the city was still there. And so were the paths, waiting to be walked. Or to have new ones forged. He felt a shiver, not from the cold, but from something else entirely. A prickle of unease, a spark of resolve.

Then, from the far end of the street, where the snow was already beginning to obscure the details, he saw it. Or thought he did. A flash of bright, almost electric blue against the muted grey and white. It was too far to be certain, the falling snow blurring the edges, playing tricks with the light. But it was the same distinctive colour Elian had always favoured for their winter coat. And then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, swallowed by the swirling white. His breath hitched, a sudden, sharp intake of cold air. Had Elian always been so close? Or was this just his mind, desperate, conjuring ghosts from the snow?