Winter Short Story
1 min
2024 Winter Short Story Grand Prize Winner
Faith H. (7th)
The wind blows, and you shiver. The cold seeps through your layers of coats, reaching for your skin. The sparkling landscape of snow drifts and whirlwinds of sleet blind you with their beauty. Each gasp of air hurts your lungs.
Almost there.
You push harder against the wind; your feet move faster.
You struggle through the storm. You know that once you make it, though, you'll find your whole family—extended and all—sitting around a cozy fireplace, drinking cocoa.
With that promise in mind, you push on, even as the wind whistles its warnings, and sleet tries to hold you back.
The world becomes a veil of white snow and gray sky. The sleet stings your eyes, and your hands start to shake.
Finally, you arrive.
Then you see what the storm has prevented you from seeing.
The lights are off. No sound comes from the house. It looks abandoned.
You stagger up the stairs and try the door. The brass handle slips in your hands. You peel your mittens off and try again.
The door opens with a groan. Dust and time fly into your face.
Someone's already inside.
He looks at you with sad eyes.
"I knew you would come," he says softly. "They're gone. They've been gone. It's time you accept that."
"No."
"You come back year after year."
"To be with my—"
"You lie to everyone, but to yourself?" He pauses. "What kind of person are you?"
You stumble over your feet as you back away from him. You trip, and fall down the stairs, into the snow. You struggle to stand. Tears sting your eyes, then freeze on your face.
Protests, then wails, rip at your throat.
"No! No!"
The wind scatters your words,
and then you're lost to the storm.
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