On snowy nights like this, I see her. I look beyond faded frost, practically skin on winter windows; she stands facing the house. She’s shivering, even tucked in her massive coat, which falls past her knees. The red one--her favorite. 

She hated winter. Sidewalks dressed with people, filthy slush, and festivity made her shudder and grumble. I wasn’t fond of the cold either, but her silly complaining kept me laughing and cozy. 

I never laugh anymore.

Worn thoughts, souvenirs of time kept thoroughly frozen, begin thawing. Pecan pie in an enamel dish. Warm rain, tulips. Sunlight. 

I can hear her giggling. We were happy.

Then the car crash happened, on a night like this. 

Bloodied pavement, crimson and stark against harsh white. 

Snow sharp as steel. 

The world grew frigid.

I peer out the window again. She’s already gone. Disappointment claws at my empty heart. She’ll come back tomorrow. She always does. But I won’t call out to her. Words die on my tongue. I can barely leave my chair. I’m just a living memory, as is she. Not real; lost to the snow.

Only one of us died the night of the accident. But I don’t know who.