The Snow on Every Window

Theo heard a soft flump above his head. Snow had slid off the roof and landed by the door. He pushed back his warm blanket. The floor was cold under his feet. His window was white all over, packed with snow. He breathed on the glass and made one small grey circle. Through it he saw the village, quiet under a thick white hat. Not one lamp had gone out yet. Nobody else was awake. Theo pulled on his boots and his red scarf.

The cold met him on the step and held his cheeks. The snow squeaked under his boots. He walked to the baker's house first. Her window was packed white, right to the top. Theo brushed it off with his mittens, round and round. The glass came clear and dark. Deep inside, something orange glowed, a stove sleeping low. Theo did not knock, and he did not shout. He leaned close and whispered instead. "Wake up slow, the morning is here."

The next window belonged to the house with the brown dog. Theo swept the snow away with both mittens. It fell in soft handfuls and landed on his boots. The glass went clear, and the grey light leaned inside. He did the shoemaker's window. He did the little window above the well. His mittens grew wet, then heavy, then cold. He pushed them in his pocket and used his bare hands. The snow squeaked. His fingers turned pink.

Behind the last house stood a small open shed. Something moved in the dark part of it. Theo looked in. A little brown goat stood in the straw, shivering. Her breath came out in small clouds and hung in the air. Theo put his hand on her side. Her coat was cold all the way through, like a stone from the stream. Theo thought about his own neck, warm under his red scarf. He stood there a moment in the cold shed.

He unwound the scarf. The cold slid straight in at his collar. He wrapped the scarf round the goat's neck, twice, and tucked the end under. The straw rustled as she settled. The goat leaned her head against his coat and stayed there. Theo waited until her breath came slow and small. Then he stepped back out into the blue morning. "Wake up slow, the morning is here," he told her. He pulled his collar up and went on.

Six windows were left, all up the hill. Theo climbed with his hands tucked under his arms. He brushed the snow from the tall window by the steps. He brushed the round one, and the two beside the gate. He blew on his fingers between each house. Above him, the sky turned from grey to pale gold. Smoke began to lift from the first chimney, thin and straight. Theo cleared the last window and stood still to look.

Behind him, the village was coming awake. Light reached in through the clear glass, room by room. A lamp went on. A kettle began to tick. A door opened and closed, and a dog shook the snow off its back. Someone pushed a window open and said good morning to the street. Snow slid off a roof with a soft flump. Theo stood at the top of the hill with cold hands and watched it happen, slow as bread rising.

He walked home with the smell of woodsmoke all around him. His own stove was still warm. He held his hands over it until they stung and went pink. He wrapped the blanket round his shoulders and poured something hot into a tin mug. Through his clear window he could see the shed below. A small brown shape stood in the doorway, and round its neck was a flash of red. Theo drank his drink and watched the sun come over the roofs.

One by one, the lamps along the street went out. The village did not need them now. Theo put his empty mug on the floor beside the bed. He lay down with the blanket pulled up to his chin. "Wake up slow, the morning is here," he said, to nobody, to everybody. His feet were warm. His cheeks were still cool from outside. The last lamp outside his window glowed, flickered, and went out.