There is a time when the world becomes as still and cold as death. If you stand outside on one of these gray, dismal days, you will hear everything and nothing at the same time.
The silence is eerie. Deafening in the way you can almost hear echoes from a world you can’t see.
The only movement is the blowing of the wind. It sings to you in a different way than it would on a breezy spring afternoon, or when cutting through the summer heat. It’s calling you; warning you. You may never know which.
You recall a time when you were a child, and you looked out the window, as a sparkling dust blew off a nearby snowdrift, and you thought that maybe, on this special, magical day, as that’s what snow days always were back then, you could actually see the wind.
You grew up to know better. The wind is invisible. Never seen, but always felt.
But it isn’t the wind that’s with you now. As you stand in the stillness, taking in the eerie calm of an event that is the perfect duet of beauty and disaster, you feel them.
The ghosts are all around you.
Curiously, they wonder if you feel it too.
The cold stillness between life and death.
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