The Last Snowfall of Prague

Prague, winter 2023. Snow blanketed the Charles Bridge, dusting Gothic spires like powdered sugar. For Lena, a Czech artist, the Vltava River whispered secrets – of old kings, of revolutions, of love lost in cobblestone alleys. She’d grown up chasing shadows in the city’s veins – her grandfather Ondřej’s stories of musicians who’d played for emperors, poets who’d died for words.

This December, Prague felt haunted. The kind of silence where ghosts rearrange furniture at night. Lena’s studio, tucked behind the Powder Tower, overflowed with sketches of snowfall – delicate, inevitable, like heartbreak. She’d avoided the streets, afraid of what she’d see.

It started with a melody. Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major, drifting from an empty apartment in the Mala Strana. Lena followed the notes to a courtyard. A figure played piano – transparent hands, a suit like her grandfather’s. _Ondřej_.

_You’re back,_ he whispered. _I waited._

Lena’s grandfather, a pianist who’d fled Prague’s wars. Died in Paris, 1995. Left her a Steinway upright, with a note: _Music holds what we lose_. She’d never believed in ghosts. Now, her pulse stitched panic.

Ondřej vanished. But nights, Lena heard him – scales ascending like snowflakes. In dreams, he led her to the Vltava. _Show them,_ he said. _The beauty we hid.

Lena photographed Prague’s snowfall – bridges skeletal, churches veiled, lovers kissing like thieves. In one frame, Ondřej stood on the bridge – clarinet to his lips, notes crystallizing. She printed it. The image pulsed.

December 15th. Prague’s cafes buzzed. Tourists snapped photos. Locals whispered _poslední sníh_ – the last snowfall. Lena uploaded her work. _The Ghosts of Prague_ trended. People flooded the streets.

December 21st. Old Town Square filled with shadows. Ondřej’s orchestra – ghosts of writers, musicians, rebels. _Play for them,_ he said.

Lena raised her camera. _Click_. The ghosts solidified – laughing, dancing, loving. Snow swirled harder. Tourists wept. Locals smiled. The ghosts didn’t fade.

_Why now?_ she asked Ondřej.

_Prague needs beauty. You showed it._

Interviews piled up. _Prague Journal_: _Lena, do you see them?_ _Czech Times_: _Is this real?_ She dodged questions. Ondřej’s voice, in her ear: _Tell them stories. Not answers._

December 24th. Snow stopped. Prague’s streets hollowed. Lena’s phone buzzed – an email. _Meet me, Karlovy Lázně._ She went.

Ondřej waited by the river. _I hid something,_ he said. _For you._

A manuscript. _My memoirs. Finish them._

Lena read. Pages chronicled Prague’s wars, love letters, music notes. Her eyes blurred. _Why me?_

_You’re the thread,_ he said. _Prague’s past to its future._

December 25th. Christmas Eve. Snow restarted – heavy, urgent. Lena stood on Charles Bridge. Ghosts swirled. Ondřej raised his clarinet. _Play with me,_ he whispered.

She lifted her camera. _Click_. The ghosts exploded – color, sound, scent. Prague’s heart beat louder. People danced. Snow erased boundaries.

_This is the end,_ Ondřej said. _The last snowfall. Remember?_

Lena nodded. Tears cold on her cheeks.

The night ended. Ghosts retreated. Ondřej vanished. Lena remained, shivering. Her camera glowed – final photo: _Prague, snowfall eternal_. She posted it. Europe’s hearts broke.

January 2023. Prague’s cafes stayed open late. Tourists thronged. Lena’s photos sold out. But she knew – the ghosts were quiet now. Waiting.

_For the next one to see._

Epilogue. March 2023. Lena finished Ondřej’s memoirs. _The Music Prague Forgets_. Publishers fought for it. She donated rights – to Prague’s street musicians. At the Steinway, she played Chopin. Notes lingered.

_Ondřej?_

Silence.

_I’m listening,_ she said.

The room echoed. Maybe he’d heard.