The cold is quiet. It is still. Crows are larger than expected. Frost edges the cracks in the pavement. The light is gentle, not punishing. The brother and sister are dressed appropriately for the weather. From a distance, they might be a middle-aged couple walking their dog. Closer, he carries a radio and sings along. She holds the lead. They do not feel the cold in their fingertips and toes. They did not grow up in the north, waiting for the bus at -30 degrees. They do not know the squeal of boot on snow when it is past midnight and the moon breathes down. They do not know the crunch of tires over ice. They do not yet know the way that winter settles into your mind.The quiet of it. The stillness.

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