Melancholy in Black...

Not a peep is heard in these night hours. Not a rustle of leaves, not a creak of a gate, not a scurry of a mouse, nor the flash of headlights in sight. The somber blackness hangs like tapestry against the air, it having consumed any trace of the day's light. All that's left is gently, so quietly, bathed in the translucent glow of white from the cratered satellite above.

Within the infinitesimal town, all is at rest. Spouses are deeply nestled into the warmth of one another; the squalls of sibling rivalry have retired for the midnight hours; the dogs and cats are curled up by the warmth of the hearths' fiery mouth; and the wilted flowers of the fields have all disappeared, shadowed deep into the night. Just faintly, if one is to listen with all their might, a collective sigh can be heard every now and again from the slumbering chests of the townsfolk.

Whistled through the lips of the illusory Jack Frost, a flurry of white dots the air. Snow drifts and gales in with all of its beauty and grace. The speckles of purity swirl and twirl, stealing away degrees as they go. Frost collects on the thin lines of red dangling from porch railings; the mercury lowers as the world begins to shiver.

All of the windows have been sealed shut far before the whistles of white laid claim to the town... all but one.

Above the old shoe store, erected in the midst of the Victorian era so long ago, the window of a tiny bedroom has been left to silently oscillate on its hinges. Gently, the snow-laden breeze quivers the tattered navy-blue curtains of the portal. Tiny flakes cling to the material, before they evaporate into the blue.

A brilliant snowflake, shaped like a star as though it's been carved by the hands of meticulous elves, wanders passed the trembling barrier of navy blue. The icy star slowly glides through the darkness, acrossed a dusty work bench, over the neglected floorboards, and passed a small hole in the wall where a tiny mouse peeps at the flake without a sound.

As if it were destined to end up in this place, the flake's flight knowingly stops, barely hovering above a dusty, old pillow. Just as those snowflakes had dissolved into the curtain, this beautiful snow-star does the same. All that's left of it is a tiny water imprint on the pillow. Soon, it will be dry, like it was never there at all.

A faint stir wrinkles the wet spot. Just inches away, a choppy head of black is lain on the pillow. Darkness is all tangled up in his hairs, blending the threads into an oblivion of sable. Unlike the rest of the townsfolk, this one strays from sleep. A quiet sigh ambles passed his chapped lips.

In striking contrast to the dark, his silvery, luminescent orbs glow in the night. Gleaming just as brightly as his eyes, a cascade of droplets, not accompanied by a single sound from his lips, flutter down his pallid cheeks. They freely fall, without a bother from him.

Having lost his moment of solace, he twists and turns in the loneliness of the bed until he has found his way onto his left side, with that arm dangling over the edge of the sheets. Palm-up, the appendage is swallowed up into the blackness.

His sights rest on the heavy, damp curtains, drenched in the snowflakes that have left their watery residue.

For hours he lays there, without a sound or stir. His eyes leaked until the ducts ran dry, and the pillow was soaked through and through.

He has cried himself into a deep fatigue, the exhaustion so great, that his eyes refuse to be held awake any longer.

Far too tired to pull his left hand back into bed, he lets it freely dangle once more. Then, his heavy lids begin to droop, as though they share the weight of the world on each one. And, as they closed, he could have swore that melancholy tendrils of darkness reached out and held his hand...