Night-time after snowfalls always has a magical quality to it.

Very, very late at night—when the rest of the world is indoors and tucked in—the activities of the outdoors die down, and a soothing stillness takes its place. The snow reflects the precious bit of moonlight, bathing the world in a purple-orange hue. It’s a scene so peculiar yet so calming.

That night, we stood amidst falling snow and soft howling winds, the football field stretching further in our minds than its 150 yards. We trekked across it, stopping here and there to free-fall into the snow and make us-shaped indentations. It is like the field has pulled a thick, white blanket over its head. The field that, in the daytime is the site of loud, brash athletic brutality, has at night become a noiseless expanse of serenity.

We walked past skinny trees wholly crystallized from frost, and found—in the middle of a clearing—a twin swing set. Why was there a swing set? We didn’t know, but it was perfect for the two of us.

So we swung, and we sang—under our breaths, for upon exploring the frosted trees, we found we had trespassed into someone’s open backyard.

This was wrong, we would say, before launching into another Coldplay song. We discussed the possibilities of a Freddy Krueger coming out from behind us, and where we could run, and the near impossibility of escaping when our tracks in the snow are clear as day. We pondered the likelihood of finding an axe in the shed. We wondered if anyone would hear us scream.

Then you told me a story of how a man found his long-time pet snake lying next to him on the bed one night, preparing itself to make a meal out of him, and we both shuddered. Enough, enough, we said.

And as the snow fell heavier still, and the wind howled stronger than before, we began to tell stories. Stories about ourselves and our hopes for tomorrow, in hushed tones that say: I’ll tell you this, but don’t tell anyone else, okay?

Didn’t I say, night-time after snowfalls always has a magical quality to it?

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