The Ghost of Christmas Past
I need to share my secret, Camille is relying on me.
When a snowflake falls, there is beauty and tragedy; each is unique until it melts on the pavement. Wearing white and misty grey shrouds, black skeletal trees form a guard of honour. The blizzard mutes all noise as a mark of respect. It feels like the world is mourning, and in my life, I am. I could not tell him; I did not share my secret. Demure whites bleed onto the pavement, and peering into a shop window, the decorati...