Evening Snow: A Short Story

April 16, 2020

His words were few and far between, but when he spoke it was like honey; sweet and life-giving. He had stains on his fingers and freckles on his shoulders from sitting outside in the summer sun and drawing the people as they passed. He was striking, with eyes the color of evening snow and hair midnight black, and his smile lit up a whole room. He was easy to miss though, through and through he was a wallflower, blooming in the corner and not asking for a bit of sunlight.

He talked to you about the books he was reading and the songs he had heard on the radio. He showed you his sketches of you and the people that had passed while you both soaked in the sunshine. There was something different about him. Although he was passive, he was always paying attention, he was always listening to the things around him; not a thing went unnoticed. He knew far too much about celebrity gossip, but blamed it on his mother. He was easier to read than any book you’ve ever picked up but he didn’t voice what he was feeling very often. He wore his heart on his sleeve.

As time went by there was a sadness that overtook him. He started to feel miles and miles away, even as he was sitting right next to you. How could someone who is so close feel so far away?

But don’t remember him that way. Remember him as the wallflower blooming through the evening snow.