Every snowflake hit the ground, leaving a ghost until fields and hedges choked with melancholy. The winter weather spoke a language even the birds could not translate.

From the window I watched Sally walk down the path, carrying the bundle we’d wrapped so warm. I wished I’d said goodbye outside so my tears had frozen to glass beads. I would have collected them to wear on a string of wool from his blanket.

By the door I wait for her to return, knowing her footsteps will be shallower in the snow.

In the fields and hedges ghosts grow in number.

(First published issue 29 streetcake magazine. Taking inspiration from Ben Schott’s project Schottenfreude Schwermutgeist is a German compound word I made up that translates as the spirit of melancholy.)

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