grand detour

a single flake lands on the windowpane at 4:17 a.m. it melts before it can touch the glass. the streetlights are still on, and the sky is a soft gray. no one has made a mark in the snow.

the coffee machine hums in the kitchen. the steam rises in thin, straight lines. the floorboards creak as the heat turns the wood into a map of cracks. the radio plays a song from 1992, the words muffled by static.

the dog is asleep on the couch, its tail twitching. the front door is unlocked. the world is still waiting for the snow to fall. it never does.