The fire in the fireplace flickered as the wood cracked, breaking the silence in the room. Dimly lit, the warm glow filled the room, as the blizzard stormed outside, yet seemed to far away, only muffled sounds of wind being heard through the window. She opened the book, the first page. All curled up on her favorite chair, a cup of tea next to her, still steaming, warm. She traced her fingers over the page, a soft smile gracing her lips. How often had she read this book already? She forgot, but it doesn’t matter. The pages worn, a bit yellowed, she flipped the page.

‘For Lisa’, it said. The handwriting a bit tacky, but she wouldn’t want to have it any other way. She flipped the page again. ‘The dreams I have when I’m awake next to you’, this time not written, but printed. Her eyes drifted down the page, glancing at the unnecessary info, when it was written, the publisher - she never really paid much attention to it. But this time she thought she just might.

Flipping to the next page yet again, she saw what she has seen so many countless times before: ‘Chapter 1: Oh, what a lovely Summer Day’. It wasn’t summer, certainly. The imagery made her laugh, but not loud, as for she did not want to disturb the eerie quiet too much. It was more of a soft chuckle, thinking back to when she read those exact words first. It was summer, then. It was a present, from her dearest.

She wasn’t going to start reading again just yet. She looked out of the window, into the dark night. It was only early evening, but winter was always harsh, and unforgiving. Getting dark in the afternoon, although her dearest always loved it. She sighed and took a sip of her tea. it was white tea, truly not what you would expect of tea. But it was her favorite kind, after all. Her eyes went back to the paper, the snowstorm raging outside making her shiver slightly. She pulled up her blanket a bit more, as if trying to keep the cold away, although it wouldn’t be able to reach her regardless.

And so, she started reading, like she did time and time again. The words were read faster and faster with each time, already knowing the placement of ever letter on every page. Yet she liked to read it slowly, letting the sentences take their full effect, submerging her in the story – or well, what is supposed to be a story. The blizzard outside not once lessening, the clock slowly ticking on without sound. It was broken, but there was no need to fix it. Pages got turned, until she reached the middle of the book.

She held back a yawn and took another sip of her tea. now just lukewarm, it was almost empty. She looked at the clock, realizing it was already this late. Looking outside, the snowstorm was still going on, and she sighed once more. Just a bit more time to read. Perhaps she should make herself a new cup, but she didn’t want to get up, as she was as comfortable as can be. Her eyelids started to feel heavy, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Turning the all so familiar page, she stopped reading, her eyes resting on the printed heading, she avoided for so long.

She has reached the last chapter. The bold letters staring back at her, as she traced her fingers over them once more, feeling the dried-up spots that her tears have caused so many years ago. After all this time, yet she couldn’t bring herself to read to the end – again. Her tea now cold, sitting next to her, the fire burnt down to cinders, the room barely lit. She felt herself get colder, as the warmth of the fire dwindled. It wasn’t that she didn’t knew what was awaiting her. She knew what was written on these pages, word for word. And in the end, another handwritten note, making her throat close up just by thinking of it.

‘From Annabelle, your love’. The clock struck midnight, leaving the house just as quiet as it always was. With a deep breath, she shed herself of her blanket and stood up. She walked over to the window, staring in the depths of the storm, in grief. She raised her hand, and with a soft click, opened the window. The cold, harsh wind and snow immediately hit her face, pushing past her into the room. She stood in front of the open window, growing colder and colder, as her eyes started drifting to the pages again. How many years has it been? She forgot, but it doesn’t matter. The pages worn, a bit yellowed, she flipped the page.