Couldn't Be

The old chapel looked prominent after a snow flurry; when just enough fell to accent the separations in the mortar. Whispers of white highlighted the sloping facades, lending life to the old dark stonework. Nothing disturbed the holy house except for a pair of footprints.

Mable tiptoed down the nave, through the chancel, and up the spiral staircase. Father Duncan wouldn’t catch her; it was Tuesday, and most of the townies gathered in the square for supper and stories. She’d ventured into the chapel before and never met with consequence--as long as she didn’t track the snow in, no one would ever know.

The staircase led to the clerestory; an upper walkway before shimmering windows that towered ten feet over the little girl. Crystalline flakes rested against the glass in a sheet, reminding Mable of the ant farm down at the schoolhouse. She nosed up to the glass to better see the shapes in the frost. Nothing disturbed winter’s sleepy blanket; nothing except Mable.

Until she reached the door to the roof, which she pulled open to discover fading tracks in the otherwise untroubled snow. Someone had been out here--might be, still--and Mable was keen to know who. She stepped into the overcast air and let her breath lead the way.

The tracks traipsed along the arches, scampered through the columns, even climbed along the spire. She didn’t understand until they led back to the stillform of a playful looking gargoyle. Smiling, it held a snowball in each hand.