A very short story about a heavy winter, a lot of snow, and a quirky kind of hope.

All night it fell leaving a complete blanket of crisp white snow, the earth’s greatest democracy, everything is equal now.

Joe carefully went down the stairs and opened his front door and drew a deep breath. The sharp cold made him cough, and listening intently, he could hear only the stillness other than the occasional swish of car tyres in the distance.

He sighed, feeling robbed of his chance to go out, this silence no place for a blind man. Being without one sense, he’d developed the others but a soundless world would be impossible to navigate.

As he turned ready to go back to the confines of his flat he was briefly interrupted.

‘Excuse me,’ a lyrical voice spoke to him. He paused. ‘Sorry to disturb you but I was wondering whether you needed anything?’ She sounded gentle, youngish, mid-thirties perhaps?

Still mindful of his stolen outing and preferring skittish to grumpy, he was ready to take a chance.

‘Some company would be nice if you can spare some time,’ he said wondering how much of his inner thoughts might be showing on his face.

‘Oh good,’ she said, ‘and I’ve brought cake.’

She squeezed past him and bounded up the stairs leaving him to shut the door.

‘I do hope I’ve got her age right,’ he thought, knowing that he was grinning from ear to ear, never more thankful for a heavy snowfall.

Fi McKinlay is a writer, poet, facilitator, mentor, coach and business change agent.

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