The Little Window in the Snow

On a quiet snowy evening, Posy follows a trail of tiny footprints from her warm window to a small surprise waiting in the garden. A gentle, unhurried story about noticing what is near, perfect for the last minutes before sleep.

The Snowy Window

Snow had been falling all afternoon, and by evening it had covered the garden like a soft white blanket. Posy knelt on the window seat, her nose nearly touching the glass. Her red coat was still buttoned, and her cream hat sat snug on her head, for she had been out earlier and had not quite decided to stay in. On the windowsill, the little lantern glowed, a small round moon of its own. It made a warm gold circle on the sill and a second one, faint and far away, in the dark glass. Beyond the window, the garden slept. The bean poles wore white caps. The old oak held the snow in its branches the way a mother holds a sleeping child. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Then, near the bean poles, something did move. A line of tiny footprints appeared in the fresh snow, one after another, neat as stitches, going where no one had walked. Posy watched. The lantern flickered, and the snow kept falling.

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Tiny Footprints

Posy slid down from the window seat. Her boots were by the door, still warm from earlier, and she pulled them on one, then the other. The cat uncurled from the rug and came to stand beside her, its white paws bright against the floor. Outside, the cold air met her cheeks like a cool hand. Her boots sank with a soft crunch, crunch, and the cat stepped neatly where she stepped. The tiny footprints went on ahead of them, small and round, one after another. They passed the bean poles, each wearing its little cap of snow. They passed the garden gate, which did not creak. The snow hushed everything, so that Posy could hear her own breath and the crunch of her boots, and nothing else at all. At the old oak, the footprints stopped.

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The Small Hollow

The footprints went past the bean poles, past the sleeping rose bushes, and stopped beneath the old oak. There, in a small hollow of snow, lay a nest. It had tipped from its branch in the night and sat on the ground like a little brown bowl, empty and waiting. Beside it, half buried, was a single seed. It shone like a drop of honey against the white. Posy knelt down. The snow crunched under her knees. She picked the seed up, cold and small in her mittened hand, and set it gently in the hollow of the nest, where a bird would find it come morning. "There," she whispered. The cat padded close and pressed against her boot, purring a low, steady hum. Together they watched the snow drop softly into the empty nest, one flake at a time, covering the seed like a blanket.

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Home to Bed

The kitchen was warm, and the stove ticked softly as it cooled. Posy pulled off her mittens and held her hands over the stove until they stopped tingling. The cat curled on the rug and washed one white paw, then the other. On the table waited a cup of warm milk, still steaming. Posy drank it slowly, both hands wrapped around the cup, while the snow went on falling past the window, flake after flake, without any hurry at all. Her eyes grew heavy. The lantern on the windowsill glowed, a low gold ember in the dark. Upstairs, she climbed into bed and the quilt came up to her chin. The cat settled at her feet, a warm small weight. Outside, the garden slept beneath its blanket of snow, and the lantern dimmed to a gentle gold, and Posy closed her eyes and drifted, safe and warm, while the snow kept falling.

The end.