A Winter's Day: Editor's Prize Runner-up Prose - Noan Cheng '26

A Winter Day

Blink.

A pervasive winter chill encases the only window. Ensnared by ice, the glass burns his

fingers.

Blink.

Shifting to the wooden frame, he notes the condition of the window sill outside. There's

cracks in the gentle slope, thin, bone-deep, slitting through the marrow and out the other side. A

gentle wind now whistles through the sliver, breathing in new air. It has been long since the snow

was last cleared off; the fissures, inflamed by the wet weight, pulse a soft red buried under the

powder.

Blink.

Underneath the ice lies a slowly percolating river. Meandering even in the peak of

summer, there was a distinct pleasure in the languid twinkle that it deigned to pass off as a river

current. The soft crests, curling at each apogee, have frozen into place. They sway and lean into

the future, ignorant it is no longer extant; one can still hear her delight, nestled within the

flowing trees.

Blink.

Across the yawning water lies a small bridge; the cumulative effort of the townspeople is

visible. The entire town watched on when it was first placed, hemming and hawwing as the

carpenters hammered the passing into place; tap after delicate tap, all under her watchful eye. It

stands there now, replete in the mirth of the masses. A vast dream, melded against the grain.

Blink.

A sparrow chirps about. Gorged on the fall harvest, it is round beyond belief. Next to the

window hangs a facsimile of its kin, drawn and framed when she was but a few seasons old. Its

rotund majesty twitters again, landing gently on the railings. Turning, it spots him and his

fingers, pressed against the window.

Blink.

Rivulets of red gleam in the frigid sunlight, fluttering into the snow as the sparrow takes

flight towards him. Perching on the window sill, it preens at its overflowing viscerae as the

bridge behind crumbles into the river.

Blink.

The man turns around, facing a crowd. It is a spectacular house, built by his parents in a

generation long past. Sturdy lines and right angles cross each other corner after corner; they

chase one another, over and over and over and over, functions and optimized ingenuity

overlapping and twirling all over and imposing their will with the treess swirling around in song

and dance until all that is left is a quaint domicile, stripped of all that once was. It has endured

much; it will endure little more.

Blink.

A line forms, leading to the small rectangular box lying on the other side of the room. He

wades past the line and floats over. Heady cloud through heady cloud, he steps over on balls of

cotton, and finally lays his eyes on the small figure.

Blink.

His fingers brush a sallow, pale face. Immaculately combed hair, rustled by his touch,

tumbles down and frames sunken cheeks, as if a canvas. Its sketched lines thicken, then jut out,

like crystallized arterial mappings.

Blink.

A small child totters over. For a brief moment, the child looks into his sister's face, then

looks at the man. He shakes his head. The child purses his lips, miffed. The unwelcome news

would not hit him, but his duties remained all the same.

Blink.

He plops to the ground, searching for his paltry belongings. The child will not be disturbed no

longer by the matters of adults. The lid draws to a close, and the village men rise, clad with

shovels.

Blink.

As they trod out in the crisp snow, the child staggers to his feet, clutching a toy rake.

Ragged, impotent teeth will scrape the frozen alongside the weary, under the watchful eye of the

sparrow Its dribbling entrails will drift by, offal and wood alike, floating in the twilight river.