My entry for SheerContest2021. Thanks to DukeFerret and psydrosis for proofreading!

Milk n' Cookies

            I don't know what brought me to wake that night. 

It was still dark in my room as I heard the wind whistle outside, a neutral feeling in my gut. I rolled over and saw the glowing red hue: “3:42 A.M.". Thought I'd flip over my pillow and head back to Dreamland, but as the night sank in, that relaxation quickly swept away. Tension rose deep within my stomach as I gently dragged my claws through the sheets, barely enough not to penetrate. Something was there–something was clearly there–this feeling, this urge, like a string to my chest: Get up. Get up. 

I rolled over to the window to enjoy the one luxury of waking up this early: snowfall. I watched as the snowflakes of late December fell under the faint, withered glow of the neighbor's porch light. But it wasn't that; I squinted as the snow plow rumbled outside, until all at once, its angelic light scanned the room corner-to-corner. The room was a palette of indigo-orange-indigo until the next moment, when it slowly faded back into the twinkling darkness. 

The sound alone was enticing. There's a slice of city life for you, without the city. Like the ambience of outside is reminding you it's still alive and well, and in the next moment, it's gone forever. The snow plow is not sudden—it's consistent, methodical, and when it comes around, it surprises no one. It scratches my ears, strokes through my long, blonde hair, and whispers in my ear, “go back to sleep."

And then came the pang from downstairs. The being that wakes when I rest. That's my shadow, conducting a symphony titled “Insomniac" in the kitchen. It is petulant, an attention seeker, though lazy with her craft, and it shows. The night came alive, and I heard the walls pop, the curtains flutter, the pipes shudder, and a drop anxiety trickle down my neck. A knick and a knock downstairs; I thought it might've been a dish in the sink. Get up. Get up. 

Tonight, I couldn't win that fight.

Thank God I was only wearing underwear as I slithered out, sweat matting my grey fur, covers still damp, blanket cold. That which soaked my hair had migrated to the pillow and went cold. I was cold. I saw the dandelion-speckled nightgown at the foot of my bed and wrapped it around me, my mind starting to get fuzzy. Through dreary eyes, light was bleeding under the crack of my door like that little devil beckoning its finger underneath. Get up. Get up.

Slippers on, I held the rail on my way down the carpeted stairs. Had the single glass of red wine from my nightstand not made its way to my hand, I'd have felt like a child on her way to her parents' bed. Might as well dump it in the sink and drink some water from the tap. But then again, I had a bathroom upstairs, too. Yet there I was in the kitchen, all the way downstairs, bathed in the nothing of the night.  One single light in the driveway gave just enough, but that was it. Get up. Get up. I sat at the table and stretched.

What was it, now? I hadn't been nervous about anything in quite some time—well, except the night I dreamt about my ex coming back, but that was just a footnote in the dream journal. Tyler was a sweet giraffe, always kept his hair back, killer smile, spotted fur combed in the heritage of his family. Never knew why he left to Florida. Hadn't seen him since he was sitting right here at the table, that cigarette in his brown fingers distracting him before he checked the phone and bolted. Ten seconds later, a kiss goodbye, a “For Sale!" sign on his house and one confused wolf girl was left sitting in an empty house. I'm not broken-hearted; I'm just sad. Confused, even. Why did he….

Dammit, now I was thinking about him again. Best to leave these things in the past. Though it's not as easy when you've got a picture in your mind, pictures saved on your phone. He used to show me his family. Conversations about his folks always brought a familiar glisten to his eye. Knowing pauses in between breaths. Nights of tears on my chest while I held him tight against me, feeling his breath on my-

Oh, stop it, Sophie. What was I doing down here, again? What was I–

My stomach growled. Ah, that's what it was–a midnight snack. Time moved in slow motion as I made my way to the steel fridge door, the bottom of my nightgown swishing past my ankles as I gripped the handle. The door bumped open, the cold passed over me, and goosebumps ran down my spine as the true thought of what brought me down here soared at a faster pace than I could ever decipher.

A white steam hissed as it cocooned my weary body, and my eyes took a direct hit of the viciously bright white light beyond it. I stared hard, though my eyes never seemed to sting, as the bottoms of my slippers started to drift further away from my soles….

And the next second, I was on my knees. I didn't think I'd shut my eyes, but they were sealed. The rock hard ground was tough against them. A faint aura of sawdust and mold reeked; I thought something in the side door had spoiled. I opened my eyes...and my appetite instantly spoiled.

The panic spiked as I whirled around. I was in the same kitchen, I–I swear, I wasn't crazy, but it was in fragments and ruins: vines grew from cracks in the floor and snaked across the table and chairs, moss covered the linings like glue, a thick, yellow haze seeping through the musty hole of a window, and the gridlocked primitive ceiling looked ten seconds away from collapse, as was I. Wallpaper shavings and tiny pieces speckled what little floors and carpet pieces I could see, the sight of it making me feel filthy all the same. But I was clean from head to toe, for the moment, as the sweat beads beginning to drop weren't just from the overwhelming humidity.

God...my stomach was in a knot. The wave of nerves rushed throughout my upper body, as I rose to my feet, heart racing. I made my way to the staircase, but saw nothing but a giant hole leading up to a non-existent landing. Now my ear was to the front door, not knowing whether to expect some horror flick style centipede on the other side or anything that made some godforsaken sense. Something was stirring outside; a twig snapped, a faraway call was heard. I slowly drew in the deepest breath I've ever taken. My hand shivered, but I grabbed the handle anyways and yanked it open, hoping there was someone with a hell of an explanation.

The shock of sudden, visceral heat swiped its claws at my fur as I shielded my eyes. The trees around the neighborhood had grown back, but at four times the size–five, Hell, my eyes were blurry as it was. All the houses on the block had dropped to sticks and stones until they were just shafts of wood on loads of potting soil. I took my first steps, and a fleet of insects fanned out in all directions, making me stumble back. Hadn't even noticed the grass was at my chest. The terror was impossible. So I did what anybody'd do for help, and looked up.

I choked back my prayers. A giant sheet of transparent, yellow energy surged from thousands of feet in the air like a film over the sky, pulsing periodically in waves the color of wheat. As I followed the bursts, I noticed they arced downwards in all directions. I looked west to where they were aiming, beyond the giant treetops.

And I ran like a rabid pioneer, nose to the pulsing dome, my slippers crunching over weeds, insects, leaves–God, nearly gave me flashbacks to the trenches. I bared my teeth, pushed away the foliage, every seven seconds checking my six by muscle memory. I ran and I ran and I ran and even when my legs were about to give out, I still ran, hoping beyond any reasonable measure for a cry or a shout.

Then I started shouting, myself. Half of confusion, half of desperation. Though that'd come to an end as I pushed aside the last bush and found myself a gasp of new air. Somehow I'd stepped upon a vast, cleared out settlement, big as a soccer field, checkered with brown tents galore, nobody walking about. And it wouldn't take long to find them. A huge line of hundreds of shadowy figures lined the base of a transparent, yellow wall where the energy pulses met the ground. The closer I walked, the more I hoped it was a mirage, and the nearer I became, the more their image took my breath away.

All of their arms were outstretched, pressing against the great barrier. And all of them wore the exact same nightgown as me; all designs of dandelions about. Beyond the figures, the world was completely tan and vacant; all the grass, wisps of tan coating the landscape, scorching sun, deathly decayed trees; the opposite of inside. I approached one of the figures with caution. 

“Wh-what's going on?"

A bony hand grabbed my shoulder. I whirled around to see a tall figure with a white mask, red marks around the empty eye sockets with two antlers sticking out the edges. His blue eyes were dead beneath that ivory mask, curved out snout, shaped in such a way that made me oddly uncomfortable.

And just like the rest of them, this figure–whatever it was–wore my same exact gown. All adjourned with dandelions, all the same faded greyish-blue. Same slippers. Same posture. Everything.

First thing it did was point at the wall.

In unison, the others pushed aside, leaving a small gap large enough for me to squeeze in. Part of me wanted to yell. But I couldn't. I just couldn't look away. I had a job to do. As I placed my hands against the barrier, my muscles were already starting to contract. What irony...the mass of energy just felt like a normal wall. I didn't want to ask questions. I didn't feel the need. All emotions were washed over by one word: Push.

And I pushed. 

It didn't budge. Not even a little bit.

It'd be something to get used to.

Hours later, a tap on my weary shoulder.

Though I didn't budge.

Another tap.

Can't. Stop.

I was then yanked away, tripping instead of backing up until I collapsed. Every inch of my body wanted to scream as my joints tried to rediscover what “relief" was. My throat was dry and my lungs felt scratched as my vision converged into a dandelion in front of me, swaying its delicate, white puff amidst the blades of grass.

I would've tried to shove myself up all day if that bony hand didn't offer itself. Its strength took me to my feet as I waited for the worst. Though, it never came. That masked thing just stared, untethered. Whatever they were, they gave me a wooden crutch to lean on, and outstretched an arm to the tallest tent all the way in the back. Guess that's my stop. Part of me thought I was walking into some obvious trap, but trust me, it'd be a break after the previous inferno of pain and suffering.

I hobbled my way, (fifty yards, I guessed) my limp arms barely holding itself up, the beauty of humanoid anatomy shining through. The way it deals with pain is fascinating, totally shutting off nerves until it can figure out what the Hell to do with itself. Numbness, the system that ignores the pain, was the only thing guiding me through that tent flap to the dead silent rows upon rows of figures, all with the same masks, all with the same gowns.

I suppose that's nothing new. The soup kitchen sat at the back, a line of fifteen figures stagnant, though the line moved quick enough to ignore. I was offered a brown bowl in front of the keg of soup. After the guy poured it in, he stopped me. Pointed to a corner of the tent with a fine, ornate door. Okay, I thought, I've seen enough insanity already, maybe let's skip the bonus round.

            Get up. Get up.

Suddenly, my hand found the knob. It creaked as it opened, and the room got cold, cruel, the pain in my muscles making a fiery return. I cried out, falling down at the chair that was comfortably close to the door, and sat down at the long table. One single light above us projected on the glossy finish, nothing but blackness in every direction. Except for the figure at the other end of the table.

My old husband.

It was him. Every feature. Every detail. Blue irises. Right down to the dot around his right eye. Only at his mouth was...nothing. Just fur. The white tank top he wore barely held by the straps where his shoulders were supposed to be. The sight of it caused my stomach to coil, but my heart to leap; was it panic? Was it pity? And he looked at me like he'd been waiting lightyears to talk to me. Maybe he had. To think I almost didn't….

“What is this?" I asked.

Why the Hell did I expect an answer?

“What happened to you?"

Now, he was scowling. I was beginning to slump, the white hot pain still coursing from my arms to my legs.

“Do you know what that thing is out there? Who's causing this? Who did this to you?"

No. All answers were useless.

“Is this where they brought you?"

Dammit, Sophie. Listen to yourself. I had to go more simple:

“Stand up if you can hear me."

He shook his head. Fine. He didn't need to.

“Well, I'm still glad to see you here," I said, mustering some form of a smile. “It's been a long, long time."

At this point, the smile was just to fight back the tears. That sad, armless body mimicked horrors I'd seen on the battlefield all those years ago. 

“You know, things at home have gotten a lot quieter," I said. “I still remember the feeling of you hugging me, I–"

Oh shit.

“I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you," I stammered. “It's just a Hell of a lot to take in."

But he looked on forward, seemingly nonplussed by the action. Those goggles I had to the inside of his heart were gone, nothing but hope left. Hope. The most useless emotion. The sucker's get-out-of-jail free card from progress. No. Of course he was hurting. I needed to do something to fix this, so I fought off the reason and stood up.

“My arms hurt like a bitch, you know that?" I asked. “But I still got it in me to hug you."

Every step I took toward him, his eyes became more pleading, more devastated.

“Come on, don't give me that look," I rasped brashly, that sexy tone I hadn't used in forever. “We're just two misfits in the middle of nowhere. Let's make something r-"

And the rest of my muscles froze. About halfway across the table, the image of him was like staring through a swimming pool. The room felt heavy, the light was flickering, and all at once, a strong wind battered me from his direction, my feet dragging hard across the ground as I banged my head on the side of the door before I was thrown out, back again, the door slamming shut behind me.

Right when I reached for the doorknob, I heard it lock with a click.

I needed the long walk around the village; one, to find my cot, the other to clear my mind. Suffice to say, only got one of those things done. The sun was still bright above me when I finally found my straw bed elevated three feet off the dirt floor, so tired I barely wiped the bugs off the seams.

I could've probably counted the minutes on my fingers it'd been before I fell asleep. Then I woke up with a familiar hand grabbing at my forearm, throwing me out of the cot. I rolled out, hit my shoulder, and yelped as it hit the floor. Just a little soreness. I'd been sleeping on it all night. Other than that, for some reason, my muscles were fine.

For now.

The space between my wake and my shift passed like seconds, back to my brittle arms against that wall.

No, I thought. This has to end eventually.

            But the second I turned to run, that commander was ready to pull me back to my spot.

            Believe me–I tried time after time after time, and every time, he'd be there. No matter how many times I screamed that my husband had to see me, it'd fall of deaf ears.

That didn't matter.

What mattered was the job.

As my arms already began to feel the pain, like an injection, I stared down at the ground, finding that white, puffy dandelion innocently swaying merely six inches too far from my back foot.

And I pushed.

____________________________________________________________________________

            Eventually, we all feel the snap.

            We like to think we're indestructible. Quick to our feet when things go awry, backpacks heavy with a mind as sharp as the world is dull. Sometimes, you're actually prepared; most of the time, you just convince yourself, hoping that it all pays off in the end like it's supposed to. Take the army. Years away from home will kill a person's sense of self. It's not all training and willpower; it's the stability of what you know and trust, and what you're willing to sacrifice to stay vigilant. And then it's about maintaining what's fundamentally you, like waking up from a sudden crash and rubber-hand-illusion-ing your way to like the new bionic arm.

But like anything, that fades. One day, you wake up, and you're still in that place. And by God, it drives you insane. All the fake deadlines in our heads shrivel and die. All the possible outcomes become blurrier than a four-year old's watercolor painting. And you never conceive how, or why, or picture what it'd look like, until the last possible moment when it sneaks up on you so hard it's practically standing in your boots, and all that's left is...well, no one can tell. They didn't make an emotion for that. I think they just call it “existing". You're there, but not yourself. One thing's for sure: there's no telling what happens in the state of “existing."

Let me tell you what that was like for me.

The sun was scorching–Jesus Christ, absolutely scorching. We'd pushed the wall back about six inches, but my traction was horrendous. The grass under my slippers had peeled to flat, brown dirt marks leading out like bulldozer tracks, stopping right before that same dandelion from earlier. I'd grown to love it. Was the only thing that looked like anything normal in this whole field of uncertainty. And laying right in front of it was its own little mountain of dirt.

Sometimes I'd laugh and say the flower built it all by itself. It was a nice thought. Doubled up: my shift was over. I swayed like a weather vane, satisfied, a newfound sense of relief cleansing all my tenderized muscles. A gut feeling, they called it. And it flew over my spirits and revived every last one of them.

The soup splashed against the bowl and dribbled off the side as I power walked towards the door again, threw it open, meeting him once again.

“Hey sweetie," I said. “How you feeling?"

Slow to respond, he gave me a solemn blink.

“Got a secret for you," I smirked. “I worked extra hard for three of four shifts. Enough to push the wall pretty far. But on that fifth shift...I just faked it. My arms are fine. See?"

I waved them around, pivoting my torso to show the range of motion.

“Here's the plan," I hushed. “Pretty soon, that lunch wave will disperse. When that happens, I'm picking you up and carrying you out. I know the way I got here–it's weird, and you're gonna have to trust me on it, but I'm pretty sure I know our ticket out. It's a fridge. It's the way I got here, and I'm as desperate as you for a way out. It's worth a shot."

I waited for a nod, or another blink of understanding, or anything...but he just stayed put. Maybe he just hadn't heard me. I ran through the whole thing another time, and still, nothing.

“Come on," I said impatiently. “I know it's not perfect. But all we gotta do is get through the first line of bushes. They'll never know we're gone."

He blinked.

“What does that mean?"

Head tilt.

“Wh-"

We sat there for a good, long while, until the impatience was utterly destroying me.

“Come on," I said. “Give me a sign. Nod if you think this is a good idea."

The anticipation was killing me. My mind tricked me constantly; any movement at all was a nod. All movements were a nod. Breathing. Blood pumping. No, that was mine.

“Honey," I urged. “I'm going to say it again. Nod if you think this is a good idea."

Nothing. Nothing at all. The silence turned to needles. The ocean sat still. Among it, the anchor that was my heart began to sink.

“You don't," I gulped, “want to stay here, do you?"

His head tilted back to its normal position. I waited for a response. I waited and waited and waited and waited and-

“Nod once if you want to stay here."

His eyes slanted as he began to think that over. Word by word. Could practically see the gears turn.

And the weight of the world collapsed on my shoulders as he nodded.

Chills crashed down my spine.

“Wh-why?" I stammered. “Why?"

Again, he nodded.

“You can't be fucking-"

My arms were seized! I shrieked! Two of the soldiers had stormed the room for the first time, yanking me away from my chair, dragging my screaming body outside of the shadowy room, slamming the door shut. They beat me in the face and the stomach and tore at my hair, leaving me bruised across my body. I had no idea where they found the strength in their arms, but they seized me and dragged me all throughout the village, back to my cot, leaving me to drown within my sorrows.

The next day, that footprint drag was rotting on the other side of the barrier, and I watched as the happy, green-stemmed dandelion was one unfortunate breeze away from eradication.

Can't think.

Can't speak.

Can't get a feel for…

No.

The loop continues.

Was this my fault?

Did I deserve this?

Back over to the tent.

What did they do to him?

Back to the soup kitchen.

Why can't I help him?

Back to the door.

Back to the seat.

“Can I hold you?"

Back to the scowl.

“My arms are, uh...slightly less tired than before."

Back to the silence.

“Listen...it's been too long. Let's help each other."

Back to the scowl.

“All I want to do is help you, Tyler."

Back to the standing position.

“Let me hold you."

Back to the promises.

“Please."

Back to the walk.

Back to the wind.

Back outside.

Back to bed.

The loop continues.

I don't know what happened when I woke that day.

Weeks had passed. Months, even. The time that passed was suddenly minutes in my pocket, in my mind. Not a cope, but a plan. No more trial and error. No more sweat. No more strain, no more fucking concretegrasswallsky to dull the senses. I'd found the pieces out and stitched them together. One of those days, I put a stick in the ground, put a stone on the tip of its shadow and waited; found out there were twelve hours of pushing, one hour of eating, then whatever's left of it for resting. I tried to figure that out. The minute I'd realized I was dreaming, I'd force my eyes open just a crack - and each time, the sun was shining. Though I wouldn't always be shoved out of bed soon after. My hypothesis: the sun never went down. The world was constantly growing, and whatever was beyond that barrier was trying to destroy it.

            Back again, the commander yanked me out, the whiteness of his gaze now uncanny and cruel. This was the last thing I learned. That mask was not a mask, it was a skull; the exact same shape and size of my own.

            When I got to my position, I grit my teeth and put all that I could into it. For an hour or two, I felt it give way, going back even an inch or two, filling me with the smallest hint of satisfaction. But the wall had moved at least two feet in our direction already. Outside, I saw the stretch of my tracks way far out my reach, nothing but the dead carcasses of life around it. And rest in peace to it all. Rest in peace.

            That shift went on for far too long. Though I made my way to the tent, finally sure of the words to use. I opened up the door and entered the room again, weaving my weak body back to the chair. There he was again. So pleading, broken. I put my arms on the table and my hands together.

“It was too early."

He looked at me with the calmest eyes. The silence added to his. Somehow, it overshadowed my fear, my pain.

“It's not that I didn't want you to be with your family," I spoke. “It's that you deserve to be happy. To not feel any pain. You deserve to be with me."

His expression didn't change. I was worried they'd replaced him with some kind of sandbag. Then he blinked. Good. I could start again:

“And this whole thing," I said, “this nose-to-the-grindstone greenhouse expansion, it's pointless. I've been here for god knows how many months, and it's only gained its ground on us. It'll wipe everything out whether I'm here to help or not."

I let it linger as I drank another spoonful of soup. Fuck, I was getting impatient. I lifted the whole bowl up and let it all down my throat.

“I'll admit it: I'm sick and I'm fucking depressed," I admitted, drawing my arm across my mouth, “so I can't imagine how you are, now. I still don't even know what you want. But the least I can do is thank you for what you did. You were my life. You were everything. Thank you."

I rose from my chair. 

“I'm not gonna touch you," I said, in the sternest tone my soft voice would allow. “I'm coming over there."

One step a minute I approached him, quiet as possible, accepting the real possibility of disaster. But it never came. I reached the halfway point and beyond, until I could finally see him in front of me in his glory. Now, we were face to face; I almost expected to find straps or nails or anything binding his legs, but they were healthy and stagnant as him. Breathing a sigh of relief, I felt around my hair, untangled the dandelion, and showed it to him.

“I picked this for you," I said. 

He stared at the flower that I had just set on his lap. 

“I'll say it one more time," I whispered. “You don't have to stay. Please. Come with me."

Pain was in his eyes.

The next second, they closed.

The poor flower's puff dispersed in all directions.

The ground shook with the fury of an earthquake, though none of it split. I yelped, the lightbulb above swinging about as I fought desperately for my footing. The flakes of the flower were rampant as light flooded into this dark room, the shadow of me dashing before I reached the threshold and saw the tent's fabric collapsing into a white sheet before me. A closer look revealed the shades in the foreground sifting to floating particles, like burning paper.

A sudden, firm grip on my arm startled me, bringing me face to face with the commander's bloodshot blue eyes, but the grip only lasted for a second. From the wrist to the shoulder, dust particles flooded out from the gown, until it was nothing but dust in the wind. In the distance, the wall was already moving forward, a mighty thud accumulating with it. I whirled around, my heart leaping as I saw Tyler standing up at last.

“Come with me!" I yelled. “Hurry!"

He didn't budge. I reached out my arm.

“We need to go!"

Not a single movement. My heart thudded, expecting him to fade with the rest of them. And he turned away instead, walking into the shadow of the room, until there was nothing but darkness.

The door snapped shut, and then faded.

I had no time to scream. I needed to run far. Far away from this place. I started sprinting directly in the woods from where I came at the start of all this.

For the first time in years, I felt my tears stream down my face as I smashed through the foliage. Every growing step, I could feel the world roar, death in all directions, death cracking beneath the surface. Trees in the distance twisting and contorting beyond the barrier, cracking like the sands in Death Valley, and for all I knew, I was next in line.

Sprinting back to the neighborhood, I threw myself over the carcasses of the houses, pleading for the straightest line back to the fridge. My legs were in absolute torment, my lungs a blistering mess, and only getting worse as the dome closed in. Worse still, at the worst possible moment, my foot snatched a loop in a root in the ground. I stumbled to the ground, turning to see a flurry of trees collapse. Oh God...how was it that close? I yanked out my foot and started to run, but I sprained it too hard, limping my way through the desecrated roads.

I made it to the driveway, the porch, the doorknob, I snatched it and threw it open, praying with everything I knew that this plan would be right! I dashed down to the kitchen where the dust was kicking up in every corner, and found the refrigerator still shut tight. With the momentum of my haste, I threw my aching limbs upon its handle.

“Please work!" I yelled, yanking it back with everything I had as the rooftop crumbled above me!

I gasped in my last breath and closed my eyes, praying that the light beyond my eyelids

was the one that'd bring me home.

And for a moment, I thought I'd ended more than just the journey. I could almost feel the cells lose themselves in the labyrinth. My eyes stung. I was alive, but hadn't felt the part. The white light before me was just a normal fridge, and the cold of my modern home returned with it. I took two steps back, then two more, one more; I hit the counter.

I'm alive, I thought, the idea feeling like a calming thought instead of a promise. I thought about it again. I'm alive. That time was a little more convincing. I'm alive. Now, it just sounds nice. Left of center of the truth. So, I added the next part: I can move on.

Something stung out of the corner of my eye, the window in the room across from me. Orange flooded in, the walls, the corners, the walls again; all designs visible for a moment before it dissipated. The snow plow.

I checked the clock on the microwave. 

3:44 A.M..

Rushing to the cabinet, I swiped out a plate, a glass, a carton of milk tugged out the fridge, I remembered I had some cookies in the freezer and tugged them out, foot tapping as I threw them in the microwave, tossed them on the plate, both hands carrying it all as I fast walked to the front door and threw it open.

If I slipped on ice, I deserved it; I was walking so fast to the behemoth that I'd hardly had the time to think about anything I was doing. Its great, red frame reflected the light of my porch with a mouthful of snow that'd finally finish its job for the night before the whole thing stopped. As I stepped to the driver's seat, I saw its window roll down to a puzzled, exhausted looking badger with a scraggly, red beard down to his collar.

“I made these for you!" I smiled, even though it wasn't true.

My smile convinced him as he opened the door. His fleece, navy coat with the hood up wrapped his pudgy body, every step I felt his warmth a little more. And even though we'd made amends, he was slow to take the next step off of his pickup truck. 

“Thank you," he said, in a cautious, sorrowful tone displaying gratitude.

I laughed a little bit, shins getting numb, finally feeling the cold of night. He took one off the plate, dipped it in the milk and then took a bite, a piece of chocolate caught on his lip as he munched away. Silence grew as we looked out to the snow-sheeted roads, the sparkly bunches piled up on the sides. And in the distance, if we squinted, we could see the faraway rooftops untouched by the storm, their full sheets of grassy front yards displayed as the both of us were left wondering why.

If you'd seen it for yourself, you'd probably call it magic.

That'd be the easy way out, wouldn't it?