My breath shades the air as I cross the stone facades of the old town. The cracking ice reminds me of a lantern released over the sea — hovering like a spirit above an entire submerged world.
My rushing reaches its end. I’ve arrived at the store where I’ll be attending a creative writing workshop. I question my pen more than I trust it — perhaps this is how I stunt it.
I shake off my boots, take a deep breath, and knock.
I’m greeted by the lovely host and Emma, the resident bookstore dog. Fluffy like a cinnamon pancake, she is a shade of molten copper, warm and deep — from her eyes down to her soft paws. Gentle and curious, she barks and sniffs and catches the scent of my grey tabby cat, Cleo, clinging to my trousers.
“Hello! You must be Nina.”
“That’s me. Thank you for having me. I’m excited!”
Emma and I ease into one another’s presence — our friendship is sealed with snuggles. I accidentally “pspsps” her a few times. Thankfully some belly scratches make up for the unintended disrespect.
I remove the heavy layers and fantasize about warmer weather. Outside, the snowfall thickens. The warmth inside these word-drenched walls allows for appreciation.
I feel guilty for anticipating summer — my feet are already buried in imagined sand, scorching in a way that soothes my skin, a strawberry slushie in hands, my lips stained red.
Novelty feels continuous, but it’s only fragments forced together to gather enough life for a memoir. Yet something inside me is shifting.
—
In a circle of chairs, I choose the one closest to the fiction shelf — hoping I’ll reach for something when the timing feels right. But time is fickle, and rarely obeys a restless mind.
The smell of secondhand pages puts me at ease — it wraps like a pair of big arms around me and squeezes me to peace.
The class assembles. We introduce ourselves — our backgrounds, our writing, where we’re coming from.
We scatter to freewrite.
I slither to the back of the store and find a couch tucked away near Emma’s corner.
—
Later, we’re sent outside — to walk, observe and return with five moments worth noticing. I listen. I watch. This is second nature to me. I remind myself: Notice what draws you in, and what breaks you apart.
A narrow street leads me somewhere that resembles a graveyard. A few steps and I’m closer. Turns out, it is a resting place. It’s adorned with fairy lights, angel busts, freshly cut flowers that wither against white marble — children’s graves.
All ages, all sizes, and all ethnicities.
A heaviness settles in my chest, and a weeping rests on the bitten lining of my cheeks.
—
Moments later, laughter coming from a basement pulls me in — a group of youngsters playing pool. I follow the sound of their chatter, but my attention is caught by another place. And so my course changes.
I lean and glimpse through a silver fence. Beyond it, a greyish chapel emerges — tall, still, neomodern. Its church bells disappear into the fog. In front of its door spreads a garden.
Bushes sit under heavy snow, frozen in time. Trees tremble with sparrows. They chirp, fly in pairs, land lightly — yet enough to shake the branches into a dance. Snow falls diagonally, like rice after an orthodox wedding ceremony, blending into motion.
Some birds mate for life. The true power of devotion, simple and priceless and hard to find.
They fade when their other dies.
—
The day ends. I trace the path back to my home. The following Sunday introductions circle back in the workshop. Some same people, same host, same Emma sniffing my boots and my coat.
“I’ve attended before,” I say when asked.
“See? That’s how memorable you are,” someone jokes.
I shrug.
“I prefer being unidentified — like an irritating neon light hovering over your head.”
“I hardly believe that to be true. You don’t strike me as a UFO.”
“Maybe not to you… What does that really say about you anyway?” I tease back.
We laugh in good fun.
—
I drift through the shelves.
“Anything catch your eye?” a fellow writer asks. I respect her voice and ideas deeply. Sharp mind and even sharper pen. The kind that strikes you as already established even if the ink is still freshly bled.
“I’m looking for something specific… though I’m not sure what.”
“Don’t you think looking blinds us to what we already have?”
It’s true. I have a library at home. A shame pile of untouched books waiting for their turn, but I keep searching anyway.
“Coffee?” someone else asks. Another great pen, with a fascinating backstory.
“Oh God, yes. I need something strong.”
“To quiet your thoughts?”
“More like… rearrange them.”
I catch myself talking nonsense again. Intentionally. But it’s a Sunday, this wave of tomfoolery hits me mostly on Thursdays — you can ask my friend.
—
Therapy sessions, writing groups, workshops, love confessions, obligations. Hours, days and weeks spent frozen on my bed.
I don’t want to be reduced to the outer shell, I think none of us do. I want to meet the version of myself that exists beyond it all. The one I recognize, standing deformed and blurry behind the tinted glasshouse. Not quite daring to face me yet.
—
Long after the workshop session is over, late at night and under flickering beige light, all that can be heard is the strikes of on my keyboard as I jot down my story. It’s no longer distant and cold. Now it bleeds — confusion, longing and unspoken feelings.
I want to spill everything. To flood the room with all that sits heavy within me. The flood finally takes hold of me. I let it — whatever the consequences of that may be. The clouds hang heavy over my house, whiten my yard. I take a break and step out into the snow.
There’s only so much worry a mind can hold. I let it go.
I lie down — arms spread on my sides over my head — tracing an angel. The snowbed is soft, glittering like the bare night sky under streetlights.
It’s a quarter to midnight and everything is still.
⸻
