A Night Draped in Flurries

I remember stepping outside last winter when the streets had gone silent. Snow was falling in slow spirals, catching the light like it wanted to linger. The kind of night where even the loudest heart finds a way to breathe softer. Streetlamps blurred into halos, and the road ahead looked like a story not yet written. Each step I made vanished instantly, as if the snow wanted to keep my secrets. I thought of how fleeting it all was— how the world can be transformed in an hour, only to be undone by the morning sun. And yet, in that moment, there was nothing more permanent than stillness, nothing more certain than the hush of falling white. People say beauty is fragile, but on flurry nights it feels stronger than stone. The silence becomes a song you can almost hum, a memory that stays even after the snow melts. Tomorrow would be ordinary again. But tonight was wrapped in something rare, a gift that belonged to the sky, and for a short while, to me.