Alice hestitated at the end of the path, reluctant to wreck the stretch of unblemished white that lay between her house and theirs. A blanket of ice crystals, muffling not just the world’s noise, but that family’s grief, too. She saw the moon, so impossibly bright through the bare-armed tree, and imagined it was shining just for them, reminding them that there was still life.
The boy had been fresher than the snow and brighter than the moon, she would say to them, though it would not help.
Thank you to Dale Rogerson for providing the photo prompt for this week’s stories, and to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for her cheerful stewardship of the Friday Fictioneers. Read others’ stories via the link below.
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