The air was very delicate that day; it seemed to hover in the sky, perfectly still, as if afraid that the slightest movement, the slightest sound would shatter it, sending it down to the ground in shards of glass. And the air was cold and still, frosty and frozen, holding its breath until some unknown future day came. The trees all around were bare and frail. Their branches stuck into the air like the decrepit fingers of a lady about to die- they were thin and small against the blank, white sky overhead. And on the ground there was snow, just a few precious inches of snow, that blanketed the impoverished, cracked dirt beneath, that covered scattered cobblestone streets, and clung silently to the roofs of houses. It seemed as though there should be more snow to fall, more flakes to twirl peacefully and gracefully to the ground, but there was nothing. The air was still. There was a house a little ways from a small village -just a few dilapidated buildings covered in that drab layer of snow which seemed to be bleakly grey although it was in fact white- that was atop a small knoll. The house did not perch nor did it stand on this hill; it was not in a condition to do either, as its walls were crooked, the windows smashed, and the door slightly ajar. A man walked up to the house, his footsteps making near to no sound on the snow, and he stared at it, exhaling a wintry puff of breath. He was of medium stature, wearing a black hat and wrapped up a black wool coat, a coat that writhed with the mysteries that the man himself did not know the answer to. He pulled his hands out from deep pockets -they were gloved- and stepped cautiously toward that open front door. As he approached the front stoop -which had caved in- he pulled his fingers out of the gloves and flexed them slowly. They were long and pale, but very much alive; although in some undefinable ways they were resemblant of those fragile branches nearby. Taking a deep breath, he crept over the wreckage of the stoop and stood before the front door. Then he held out his hand -it shook terribly- and pushed on the rotten wood. It swung rustily open, as though movement was a concept which was foreign to it. And he walked inside. This was a fast action; he wanted to get it over with, and soon it was. He was now in the front hall, if it could even be called that. If there had ever been any furniture there it was long gone now, replaced by- nothing. There was no mold, for it was too cold for that, and the house was just intact enough that it didn’t let too much of the weather in. Instead, an aching emptiness filled the space. Old faded wallpaper was peeling, exposing even older crooked walls. The man took off his hat as he looked around. He held out the hat; ghosts of a hatstand, of loving hands which would lift the hat away, flickered before his eyes. But they were only that: ghosts. A flash of pain contorted his face and eyes momentarily, and then he nestled the hat in the crook of his arm, shook his head, and kept moving. He moved through a warped doorway and there was a kitchen. In the windows there were no panes, only jagged bits of glass that glinted like tears which had thrown themselves to the sill. The room felt exposed, alien, like this, and now there were real tears blossoming in the man’s strong blue eyes. He brushed the tears away with his cold hands, and looked around. A table and chair, knocked over, were all that remained in the room besides an old fireplace and some scattered logs that used to be neatly stacked, but were now everywhere, confused and discombobulated. He pulled the chair to the fireplace and gathered the wood tenderly into the dusty fireplace. Then, sitting down on the creaky chair, he withdrew a box of matches from one of those deep pockets. He struck one, and watching the flame slip into life, he placed it on the logs. He fanned it with his hands, and soon the fire caught. The man blinked, then blinked again, and soon he couldn’t stop. The tears streamed down his face, onto his mysterious coat and his ghostly hat. The tears fell and fell and the dark, curling smoke from the fire twirled and flew into that preciously still, silent, frail air, tainting its purity… And then the sky broke.