Ghost Stories

I run my fingers along the pane of glass. Spider webs of creeping cracks play catch and release with my skin and I press my nails into the tired, supple wood. Someone once loved this handcrafted French window. It now stands solemnly, skewing the light white dust that refuses to be ignored past its panels.
It’s six fifty-six. The cold of the night has yet to let up. I consider waking the lifeless body cocooned within blankets beside me up. I decide against it. I touch her forehead and she hums a single note.
A long hike has taken us to a seemingly abandoned cabin. Worn with time, it is gentle and loving and the wood aches and moans as I move over it.

Everything is a strange violet beyond the glass. The sun never really shines this early in the winter, instead, an odd tinged bruise consumes the sky. The tamaracks and birches that surround the cabin is a pleasant change from the chaos of the city - I decided long ago I would rather embrace the climate in which I was born rather than deny it, like the residents who would rather combat the long months with chai lattes and frequent trips to Arizona. I blow on my fingers and press them deep into my pockets.

The morning walk offers some clarity, whether in the sobering temperature or the silence of the trail. The small reservoir that feeds into the adjacent great body of water offers no greeting today. A thin layer of ice serves as a sharp reminder that autumn has given in on holding out. While some fight the changing seasons, I embrace it.
I walk until the cabin fades from my sight, and find myself sitting near the small, still water, fighting to refuse the ice creeping over it. I smile.
I would like to be married here, someday.