Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 20

seemed to mind , treating it as if the pokes of a mischievous child , while the gentle caress of snowfall seemed to apologise for its friend ’ s pestering . Such a child laughed all around him , blowing the snow this way and that , whistling tunes and howling ballads .
The man tried to stand up , reaching out his hand to balance himself , when he realised not only the absence of a glove upon his right hand , but how he felt no cold despite such an absence . As he stared at his hand , wondering how it managed to maintain its temperature in such gales , he witnessed the weightless descent of a snowflake upon his index finger , and then its immediate disappearance as it melted into the air once more .
Suddenly the man ’ s face grew warm , but it was warmed by none other than a steady stream of tears . Tears that melted the snow upon his hand , tears that stained his ragged boots , tears that warmed his cheeks but stung his heart . The man sat back into his mattress of powder , scattering the surrounding snow .
As tear-fall and snowfall descended in sync , as endless streams of tears cascaded into the freshly fallen flakes , the caress of snowfall wiped away the man ’ s tears , consoling his confused and weary conscience .
Many moments and sniffles later , the man sat against the trunk of a fir tree , the trails of his tears still visible on his cheeks . His puffy eyes staring through the tree branches and snowfall , deep into the heart of the sky . Through tearful rumination and snowy assuage , the man had reached a simple epiphany : Inevitable death , fearful as it may be , is that which gives meaning to tragically temporary life , and that to enjoy the former , he must accept the latter . And such was the irony of life . No matter how far he ran , how many shortcuts he took , how many times he looked back , or how many times he pushed himself forward , no matter how many times he convinced himself that “ life finds a way ”, all that meant was that death would as well . All the running he did , was not only vain , but wasteful . Wasteful of energy and age , wasteful of what little time we all have on this planet .
In many ways , life was akin to the falling snowflakes , falling miles in the air , delicate and beautiful . Only to melt into nothing , a journey seemingly in vain . Until they form in the chilled sky , once more , only to fall , once more . But as beautiful as the falling snow can be , it is only made so because of its inevitable fate to melt . It was the very fleeting nature of the snowflake , that lent beauty to its brief time on Earth .
Not far away , the crunch of boots against snow sounded . The man did not turn his head to greet the unnamed visitor- He knew who had come to take him .
The unnamed man , cloaked in black , with skin as pale as the snow he stepped in , stopped beside the man . He smiled at his visitor , and Death smiled back , for it was so rare that he could come across a man who accepted him .
Death lent a hand to the man , helping him onto his feet , and together they left the forest , beyond the falling snow , past the melting flakes .
~
A day later , a passing band of merchants , sickened by the cold and the wind , were taken aback by a lone corpse , sat against a fir tree , half-steeped in snow , his lips purple , his pupils milky , dead from pneumonia , smiling , melting , into the falling snow .