A woman is walking down a small road. She is hiding something in her coat. The orange light of a streetlamp casts three shadows ahead of her. The air is chilly. Maybe it will snow tonight.Â
The sidewalk is uneven. She trips. A delicate glass marble slips from her hand under her coat. The woman falls to her knees. Her pain is palpable, as if a knife has been thrust into her lungs. She searches the sidewalk with her eyes raking and her hands grasping.Â
It is too late. The marble is shattered on the cold concrete. It shines in the light of the streetlamp, casting glow and shadow in equal measure.
Almost gently, the woman places her head in her hands. It begins to snow. She stays there, unmoving, while the snow sweeps faster and faster around her form.Â
The sun begins to rise. The streetlamp goes off. The woman is still motionless. With her head in her hands, she does not see that, when the first ray of sun hits the glass, the small pieces root themselves into the pavement. And as the snow turns to rain in the heat of the new day, out of each fragment of glass grows a delicate white rose.
