There are various types of snow that the man has experienced before tonight. Most of the time, when one inquires of the frost’s colour, the other would hold a look of indignation, absolutely certain that it is white — perhaps even achromatic. There is no question about it. One would regard the asker to be a fool, pairing the answer with a probable diatribe. Even so, the male knows well that as he adjusts the coat adorned, pure snow is more than a white hue. In the past few weeks, he learns of black snow, spotted snow and red snow. Dark purple blotches are occasional sighted too. Tonight’s design, nevertheless, is ashen. It smears his pale cheeks even as the owner hears the subtle rumble of a transportation travelling away.

 

The absence causes a gelid shiver to imprison the bones. He rearranges the brown coat in a snugger manner to provide effective warmth before shaking his head slowly. The man is struck with an unexplained misfortune, one that could certainly affect the impending future. Gentle, despondent blinks execute as the remembrance of hurried shrieks, accosts and judging looks dominate. Unfair. The great unjust to it all that will likely live untold. He is but a mere man, one that others would be willing to turn a blind eye for the perfect unexpected reasoning that he had been there at the wrong place at the right time, and that becomes a glaring sin unworthy of forgiveness. Staring at the dirtied ground that his worn feet trod upon, he has never felt so alone before in this murky and silent neighbourhood.

 

Then his ears catch the faintest beat. It is not the squeak of the grey mouse, or the yowl of a stray cat. Neither is it the exasperating chirp of a hungry chick, nor the wail of a child abandoned. It is much simpler and genuinely accidental like the slip of one’s tongue. With eyes that lit up with the temporal tenacity of human emotion, the man notices another person on the furthest end of this desolate bus stop. The blunder so barely existent that it is comparable to the susurration of olden leaves and less. It had been the shifting of one’s foot, of that he is nearly convicted.

 

Even so, joy is not permitted to inflate beyond redemption. These are dangerous times, and no one is to be trusted blindly, regardless of one’s profile. He frowns at the short-lived delight, finding it to be a massive pity and the flecks that bother his eyes chances to give him an idea. They are at a bus stop, after all, and upon inspection, it would seem that the other is leaning against the horizontally gifted metallic beam. It connects directly and so a smile appears. With a mumbled prayer, the man gingerly taps on the aforementioned structure, his doings sounding hollow and rudely disconcerting.

 

If the person proves to be a genuine stranger; an alien, that soul would not care about the man’s subtle attempt. Only the surrounding neighbourhoods including this one had decidedly adopt a non-verbal way of communication during the scenes in which a string of explosives arm the emptied streets and the loud soldiers. The war that is being spoken of is inherently writhen in nature, finding victory in the capture of children and women, assets considered to be a nation’s treasure. The pattern will only be recognition by those who educated themselves — specifically those who had to — in this peculiar language, inspired by the Morse code. Well, it is almost a replica but since there is no professional transmitting device right now, the man could merely try and see if the other would get the gist of it.

 

The wait is excruciatingly long. At least two minutes have passed since its delivery and there seem to be no particular reaction. The ashen-faced man allows a suspire to rise from the tongue at the notion of being left behind after the loose hope that he is not completely alone. Why, is a question he would love to negotiate with the starry heavens as he leans on the beam, but the sudden vibrations that transpire immediately shakes him up. Could it be? Or is it but a beautiful, surreal dream? Eyes flicker in the supposed direction and tears would have welled up if it is not for the inner pride. There, albeit hardly, there is a purposed movement that poses as a response. In his excitement, in his fervor, the individual tries not to get carried away as the message has to be received correctly. What is the use of feeling ebullient if the response is one that resides in the negative quadrant?

 

The person answers in code that it is amazingly fine for the other to draw nigh. The prospect is ludicrous; unfathomable like the arrangement of resplendent stars that hang across the skyline. The heart palpitates and the frostiness begin to lose its hold on the male. Clumsy, timid steps are taken to venture towards the one who is alright with this arrangement, characteristically reckless and thoughtless. A fool would do better than to do something extemporaneous and unguaranteed like this.

 

However, the man has become tired with the ways things are overly calculated and facing eyes that never meet. Fear has become the norm in the society due to recent happenings and it is breaking relationships. While it is astute and shrewd to think of possible conclusions before they eventuate, the lack of courage to ever do something uncertain for the greater good plus the fact that trust is a barred currency is monstrously clawing his heart from the inside out. Amongst the people, he would have known how tempting it is to give in to these values and live a life of scepticism but it is definitely not ideal. To lose the very thing that made him human is a terrifying trail of thought. It would be inaccurate to surmise that the man has been unaffected, nonetheless. The crevices in the soul are comparable to scars that lengthen with each unfortunate occurrence.

 

So each trudging step is a representation of hope that magnifies in absurd proportions. Perpetually doubtful, nevertheless, so the man taps a few codes every now and then through the metallic beam, praying that the other will not grow tired with the ongoing need for assurance. It has just been too long. Though it lacerates his heart, asking on a common basis is something he needs to do since the steps are slow, and the fickleness of the human mind is not one to be underestimated with. The ashen-faced man knows of the people who turn a hundred and eighty degrees within impossible seconds. And sadly, such drastic measures are pulled out whenever an ultimatum is issued, a losing deal being kept at bay.

 

The vibrated messages supplies his exhausted being to move on, propel forward to a future uncertain. As the body is weakened, the hand that leans on the beam on support is there for always when it drops without a moment’s notice. Perhaps fifteen steps apart, or a close thirteen, the man descries a new characteristic that alters this situation altogether.

 

The stranger on the other side of this narrow world is a woman.

 

Finely charmed, with a solemn veneer that would stop one in their footsteps to ponder on the reason behind such a macabre expression. Hands poised in a dainty mien, the limp discoloured scarf that strangles her neck. Though his vision downgrades in resolution quality a moment at a time, he is convicted that this individual is distinctively different from the rest of her kind. Maybe he would question why if his thoughts are not engaged in a state of current dissonance.

 

Taking great caution, the gleam reminds the man of a courtesy that is to be extended by he. The man in the coat lifts his sad excuse of a hat to her, inserting a sublime query as to whether he is allowed to proceed. After all, it is better to give another the benefit of a doubt since from the initial distance, it would be most preposterous for him to believe that she is well aware that he had been a man. He didn’t even realize that the figure had been a woman, after all.

 

The hard won answer of a yes, as indicated by the woman with the nod of the head enthuses him. There is no want to be despicable with this person, but to think that company might finally be granted to him is certainly a gift bestowed by the skies above. The last few steps are watched closely by the woman with the discoloured scarf, and he shakily meets her eyes. The contact is electrifying, spellbinding.

 

Is this what is it like to feel human once again? To catch the language unspoken but seen and to play guessing game with another entity that appear alike yet galaxies apart?

 

The man awkwardly shifts the weight of his balance from one foot to another, unable to think of a word that would break the silence well. While he would very much like to include that this silence would be the perfect medium, it is evident that it is driving them to diverging pathways with each passing minute. Inadvertently, the stares commence and the wonderment is elaborated in the human cerebral system, thinking if it is wiser if he speaks or to never do so at all. The subtle shine is a piece of data that prods uncomfortably, and finding himself too tongue-tied to speak eloquently of her physical traits with due respect, the man in the coat settles for the simplest form of greeting.

 

“Hello.”

 

It materializes with a rasp tone, shocking both the owner and the recipient of the well wish. Looks are exchanged simultaneously, with a thousand notions entangled and somehow, merely somehow, gentle smiles are formed that lead to a string of laughter that wake the soundless neighbourhood. It is hilarious, how she assumed a similar tone and it is innately concluded that it is due to the non-usage of the spoken language. Strands of hair twiddled, eyes blinking at an unnatural speed, the occasionally scratched neck and fiddling of the hemline are only minor factors in this burst of exchange. Words and emotions spill over.

 

He had been a war veteran, having played against a fire match too large to conquer or quell — being there in the wrong place at the right time, all the cards of misfortune having collapsed on him at once. Ostracized by the society he planned to serve with all of his dignity and might for the rest of his life had it been something to be accomplished by him.

 

She had been married happily once, until the unjust death of the spouse skewered the life she knew and life turned bleak. The society she lived in did not look kindly towards the young widows, and so it was laughably easy to be defeated by the ones around her, especially when murder is left unwritten. The ring, the gleaming ring, is a shadow of the past as it cradles the left pinkie finger, the reminder of a promise too early broken.

 

They are the ghosts left behind by the people who thought themselves better. Untainted by the shifting circumstances of the world that kill from the inside out and in other methods unspecified.

 

With the dim streetlight and the soul of no other to be found, furtive glances are transmitted before the linking of hands transpire, the feverish sensation of holding another close and the pair that concertinaed against the hard ground, incoherent whispers that lullaby to a dreamy mood, and they fall quite fast asleep, forever.

 

Years from now historians will proclaim that violence is not the answer to the dispute of nations, but in the inked abandoned street of the sooty bus stop, the pair had found peace in the heart of herculean dissent.

 

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In the end, inner peace reigns. That is all I intend to convey.

Whoever you are, thank you for reading this piece of anonymity. Leave a comment or not; do whatever your heart desires.