A Teacup Full of Stories

Hi there! I hope you enjoy this short story that I wrote this evening. Please feel free to leave a comment with any thoughts you have on this piece, as I always really appreciate feedback! Thanks.

The light shimmers in the crisp night air; a sharp coolness that runs its fingers over your skin and raises your hair in goosebump-shivers pervades the darkness. The wind lightly ruffles the surface of the snow that sits lightly on the ground, catching flakes in a glittering dance that echos the stars above. Silence persists. The waning moon casts its dim light across the rooftops, catching the city in a silver glow.

His breath steams in the air, creating a drifting fog that quickly dissipates before him. His boots crunch through the frosted surface of the snow, silenced by the heavy drift below. Gloved hands balled in pockets, head bent against the cold, he does not stop to glance at the scene around, but simply walks on.

He has nowhere to be. No-one in the silent city is expecting him tonight, and by the morning his footsteps will be lost in the fresh fall of snow from the silent sky. He passes as a shade, unnoticed, fleeting, leaving no trace behind. Not even his breath remains in the frosted air.

Under the street lamps he walked with purpose; now, nearing the dark, endless shadow of the river he slows, lost in thoughts unknown. One by one he silences the buzzing in his head, until his mind is as clear and calm as the sky above. His paces slow; bringing his hands out of the warm depth of his pockets he lights a cigarette, a sudden light among the muted tones of the streetlamps on the snow. He stands on the bridge and observes the water flowing sluggishly by.

The void below echoes the void above, reflecting hazily the mesh of stars; and in between he stands on a bridge of muted white between these two darknesses, smoke mingling with breath and fading into the night.

When at last the sun once again starts to touch the shadows of the East, when the city starts to open its eyes and stretch out its arms to meet the day; when the pure white silence on the streets is sullied by a thousand footsteps and mixed to a grey slush; when all the contrast of the night becomes one – grey water, grey ground, grey sky – there is nothing to show of this man of the night, except the ashen grey end of a cigarette lying beneath the snow.