Gospel Of Snow

The snow falls with a cruel, deceptive silence. It dresses the world in white, muffling the sounds of our village and promising a beautiful, clean slate. But underneath it, everything is the same. The same judgments, the same fragile smiles, the same fear that makes the rules here. It is a fear born from society itself. We hate and we judge, and then we hide because we're afraid the next person will do the same to us. Nobody likes being judged. In our own eyes, we are always the good ones. I saw it on my sister's birthday: my own family mocking neighbors while eating cake. Laughter and music and food, yet judgment sits at the table like an uninvited guest. That's human nature, I suppose. Everyone has an opinion, and most opinions are built on one quiet assumption: I am better than you. But the irony is this: the more someone claims to know the truth about others, the more they reveal about themselves. Judgment is a mirror. It reflects their fears, their values, their hidden desires. The man who calls others weak might be fighting his own private war with weakness. My father is a good trader, as most men here are. Our village is cut off from the cities by the great dense forest. Now it's snowing, and children play, schools are closed, and the world looks beautiful. The authorities call it a safety measure, but I think they just want an excuse to stay home with their families in this white winter. Snowballs and snowmen are fun, I suppose. But never for me. Not because I lack friends—I can charm anyone with sweet words. I just still don't know what friendship really means. I only adapt. My father left three nights ago and hasn't returned. A heavy silence has settled over our house, a new layer on top of the snow. Sometimes his trade takes that long, but in the winter, each extra night feels heavier. In that forest, risks grow with the snow. I don't know why I'm writing this in my empty school notebook. It's rare for me to waste energy on something I know will end in vain. My mother and sister will probably use these pages to light a fire someday. That's how it goes. My mother, sweet, loyal, devoted to her idols. My sister, thirteen, is still loud and careless. Unlike our neighbor aunt. Her husband trades with my father in the city. She cheats on him with the shopkeeper down the road. No one knows this but me. I saw it last month while bathing from our window. That's how small our world is: a glimpse of a naked shoulder, a quick glance, and a life falls apart in my mind. Kindness born from greed for heaven, or fear of hell, has never impressed me. It always felt like an act, a performance to please idols who can't even speak. I am not sure if I'm an atheist—maybe I am. But the words of priests and the rituals of my own family have never made sense to me. The priest too—he's kind, or so it seems. I once saw him rescuing a cat from a tree near the road to the forest. I didn't bother to help. He isn't old, he can climb himself. It is finally my final year of high school. Academically I'm not weak. It's been ridiculously easy to get people to like me: show up, talk sweet, give them what they want. People fall for a pleasant smile and a good face. The most stupid guy I know is my only friend since kindergarten. People call him Big Eyes because he cries at the drop of a hat. But for me he is the Big Mouth. Whenever he's not crying he's laughing—flashing those ugly white teeth. I stick with him because our mothers are best friends, and I've been stuck with the Big Mouth since childhood. He said he'd come to take me out to play in the snow. It is almost four. I have no choice but to go—his grin will persuade my mother to drag me out of this messy room. The village looks different from the lane: broader, as if the snow has softened all the edges people use to hide behind. The Boy with the Red Scarf is there already—he has made a lump of snow and named it "Old Man Snow." He speaks to it as if it understands him. He offers me a handful of snow like an offering. "Look," he says, eyes wide, "it's perfect." I feel something odd in my chest—not pity exactly, more like the ache of borrowing warmth. For a moment I let his light sit on me. It is easier that way. If you saw Big Mouth and the Boy with the Scarf together, you'd swear they were brothers. The dumb duo—I call them. The snow bites, of course, but their warm smiles only make my chest feel colder. I wouldn't know what that kind of warmth feels like. Not that I care. I join them with the same prison-face I always wear to pass as likable. We're sixteen, but we're acting like children, I suppose. Such a pathetic, childish game. I half-expect one of them to suddenly yell "thief!" and bolt through the snow, and then we'd all give chase after some invisible criminal. At least the snow is soft. Nothing bad will happen. Not yet.