Winter confuses me. It’s peaceful but restless. Snowfall arrives as a siren. She strips herself bare, shedding her frozen skin. Flakes of flesh disregarded. I press my boots into her body, grinding her into the earth. Yet ribs still rise where my feet don’t fall. Light staining the path. I pass by a hollowed-out tree, an eye socket of the forest. Barren and void of any life. I run my hands along the bark, and it is warmer to the touch than I would have suspected.

Then, in front of me, appears a patch of scarlet snowfall. Lobster baked sleet. My stomach drops. I look around. Nothing is here. The cottage I am staying at is in the middle of nowhere. The world around is so soundless that you can hear yourself bleed. I wonder if blood gets lonely when it leaves the body. A baby bird vacating its nest. I wonder if it misses the rhythm and routine it once belonged to. Winter makes me forget where the world ends and I begin. My choices. My movements. My humanity. Leaves more of a mark.

That was when the sky started to rumble. I forgot about the blood and made a run for inside.  I’m even more scared of thunder when I’m by myself. The loud commandingness of the rumble. Somehow, the loudest noises make me feel the loneliest. They take up so much space. I’m reminded of how small I am. The wind picks up, slicing through the air like butter. My breath starts to quicken, catching in my throat as I get to the cottage driveway.

By the time I reach the door, I don’t know what is me and what is the storm. Inside the cottage, I hear nothing. Nothing at all.