She walks across the snow-covered ground, steps heavy and deliberate to carve footprints in the otherwise perfect carpet of snow. Her cheeks were pinked from the cold, and her hands were shoved deep into her mantle’s pockets.
It is still in the early morning of a cold February, and it is curious to see her deliberately daring the snow in such hour, yet without a clear direction. She simply wanders the neighborhood, leaving her footprints along the roads as if waiting for someone to catch up to her.
There used to be one.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
As if on autopilot, her feet bring her to a still empty playground where she used to frequent. She pauses at the entrance for a moment. This is a place she used to spend her time. With him. At least, until about a few months ago.
Slowly, she makes her way to a wooden bench near a dried tree, and settles herself there.
“It’s been two months, Aran,” she tells the empty playground. “I miss you.”
