I am not one to complain.

There is a magic in the air. The new snow has fallen. I press my fingers against the window to feel the chill. The door is shut. I am alone, in the silence.

The city, beneath me, moves in slow motion. There are Christmas lights along the avenue coiled around carefully trimmed trees. They rise like bones, a pretense of nature that makes them appear all the more bizarre.

I am not one to look behind.

There are ghosts in the other room. Voices from times past. I could play them back, broken records forged of imperfect memory.

They call out from behind the door. I press my fingers to the glass and focus on the sensation. Fog born from the heat of my skin spreads along the pane. The lights scatter into faded stars, indistinct.

I am not one to linger.