The Hush Before Dawn

Arthur woke to an absence. Not a sound, exactly, but the lack of all the usual ones. No distant rumble of the late-night bus, no neighbor’s dog giving its perfunctory bark at some unseen shadow, not even the drip-drip-drip of the old faucet in the kitchen he usually ignored. Just… nothing. A thick, oppressive quiet that pressed in on his eardrums, made them ache with the effort of hearing.

He pushed himself up, the springs in the mattress groaning like an old man – an old man like him, really. His feet found the cold linoleum, a shock that jolted him more than any alarm clock. The house was cold, that deep, bone-settling kind of cold that meant the heat hadn't kept up, or maybe it hadn’t bothered to try. He shuffled towards the window, pulling aside the heavy, faded curtains that smelled faintly of dust and forgotten things.

Outside, the world had disappeared. Blanketed. A solid, unbroken expanse of white stretched from his porch to the road, swallowing the shrubs, the mailbox, even the mangy old oak at the corner of his yard. Fat, silent flakes still drifted down, endless, relentless, like tiny white secrets falling from a bruised sky. Each one landed without a whisper, adding to the suffocating quiet.

He pressed a hand to the glass. It was colder than he’d thought, a sharp bite that seeped into his palm. His breath plumed on the pane, a ghost in the dim light cast by the streetlight, now just a blurry yellow halo through the thick curtain of snow. He could feel the cold seeping through the cracks around the frame, a constant, subtle invasion.

The silence was a thing, a presence in the room. It chewed at the edges of his mind, not letting him think of trivialities. It stripped away the small, daily distractions he used to keep his thoughts from straying. And with the distractions gone, there it was. The memory. Always the same one, lurking under the surface like a stone at the bottom of a clear, still pond.

David. His son. Last time he’d seen him, the boy was practically a man, all sharp angles and stubborn jaw. A fight. The stupidest goddamn thing about a spilled cup of coffee, then it was about college, then it was about everything. David’s face, red with fury, yelling about how Arthur never listened, never cared. The slam of the front door. The way the sound vibrated through the floorboards, a physical punch to the gut. The silence after that door closed was a different kind of quiet, a hollowed-out one.

That was what, fifteen years ago? More? The details had blurred around the edges, like an old photograph left in the sun. But the feeling, the knot in his stomach, that never faded. It was there now, a dull ache just below his ribs. He wondered if David ever thought about that coffee cup, that door. Or if he’d just moved on, built a life that had no room for Arthur’s silence.

He pushed away from the window, the chill of the glass clinging to his hand. The floorboards creaked under his weight, loud, impossibly loud in the vast, empty house. He walked to the kitchen, every step a declaration. The refrigerator hummed, a low, mechanical moan that was the only counterpoint to the snowfall’s hush. He pulled out the carton of milk, old, almost empty, and a bottle of cheap whiskey.

He poured a measure, straight, then added a splash of milk, just enough to cut the burn a little. The small clink of the ice cubes in the glass was like a thunderclap. He nursed the drink, standing in the middle of the kitchen, the chill seeping up through his slippers. He could hear his own breathing, ragged and uneven, in the quiet.

David used to love snow. Build snowmen, fierce little warriors with carrot noses and pebble eyes. Arthur remembered standing at this very window, watching David, a small, bundled figure, his breath puffing out in white clouds as he wrestled with a giant snowball. He’d come in, cheeks red, hair matted with flakes, smelling of cold and fresh air. That small, irritating mess, the muddy boots on the rug, the wet gloves dripping by the heater, felt like a luxury now, a memory he’d trade anything to relive.

He finished the whiskey. The heat spread through his chest, a brief, welcome fire against the external cold and the internal chill. He looked out the back door, where the porch light, a weak yellow eye, illuminated the steadily accumulating drifts. It looked like a sea, a vast, white ocean. Untouched. Pristine. Empty.

He thought about going out, just for a moment. To feel the snow on his face, to break the perfect, unbroken surface with his own foot. But what was the point? He’d just track it back in, make a mess. And the cold, God, the cold would bite right through him. He was too old for such foolishness.

He turned off the kitchen light, plunging the room into near-darkness, save for the weak glow from the street. The house felt bigger now, stretching out around him, each silent room a reminder of what wasn't there. He stood there for a long time, listening to the unbroken quiet, watching the snow fall.

The world outside was still, utterly still. He clenched his jaw, the old scar on his cheek pulling tight. He knew come morning, he'd have to shovel. It was always like this.