The snowflake

This is the second installment in a continuing series of short pieces of fiction.

He remembered the first time he saw her.

She was young then, and beautiful. What he remembered were her eyes. They were the kind of eyes that a man could get lost in, and often does.

He remembered her hand, the way it felt in his, so soft, so warm. He watched her once, as she swayed to and fro to some long forgotten piece of music, her soul keeping time with the waltz. He knew then he loved her, with all the passion and the certainty and the innocence that only a young man can feel.

They went walking, alone together in the fading twilight. She told him her fears and he shared his dreams. The fading red hues matched something in his heart, something he thought would last forever, but was fleeting, a star shooting brightly but briefly across the night sky.

She looked beautiful in the moonlight, illuminated by its pale light. He wanted to love her then. He wanted to give his heart to her, realizing for the first time that what he felt was something rare and wonderful and pure.

And now she was gone. Like a snowflake that lands on your hand. One beautiful, unique snowflake. It had rested there a moment, then it melted and was gone.

He became tired of the rain and returned to his flat. He opened the door and did not turn on the light.

He sat there in the darkness, alone with his memories.