The Man in the Winter Frame

The city is quiet and dark tonight. I like it like that. My back rests on a public bench near the city square, where heaps of snow have thickened the ground by several feet. I often come out, in the middle of the night to admire the beauty of falling snowflakes. They don’t plummet to the earth, nor are they easily swept away by the wind—well, unless it’s one of those days—and they always descend without a sound. The way snowflakes fall from the sky feels deliberate, almost graceful, like a quiet ballet I’m allowed to witness alone.

It’s that time of year when family, love, gratitude, and connection take center stage. Will this year be like last year? Or the year before that? My house sits on the edge of the cliff, far from the town below. I’ve come here not for people, but for myself—to sit, observe, and breathe in the quiet. Even though I speak to no one, I feel connected somehow, like a shadow threading through the town’s life without truly being seen.

In the distance, laughter echoes. Christmas carols, twinkling bells, and cheerful chatter drift faintly through the air. After some time, I decide to finally go home. I listen to the crunch of my shoes on the snow to keep my thoughts from spiraling. When I reach my car, I see a little girl with glistening, tearful eyes and reddened fingertips. She wanders the parking lot for a moment, then breaks into crying. My hand, frozen in front of the car keyhole, retreats into my jacket as I walk toward her.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Ahhhhh. Sniff. Another sniff.

“I lost my wish list.”

“Your wish list?”

No response. Only a series of quiet sniffs, the kind of breath someone takes to suppress a painful cry.

“I’ll help. But you need to tell me more so I know what I’m looking for.”

“My… wishlist to Santa. I wrote him a letter with a wish list.”

“Oh. So you lost it here?”

“I don’t know.”

She cries even harder. My face twists in confusion, my mouth almost blurts out, Huh?

“Well, then why are you looking here?”

“Because I looked everywhere else.”

“Alright. So it was written on a piece of paper?”

“Yes.”

I pause. A piece of paper could have been ruined by the snow. I give her gentle pats and rubs on her back to soothe her, and she quiets for a moment. I head to my car to retrieve a flashlight. Just then, a shrill voice cuts through the night.

“Mary!”

Her mother, who had been calling for her, spots the flashlight and rushes over. She inspects her daughter, spinning her around again and again.

“What are you doing here? I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Everywhere!”

Mary points a tiny finger at me. The mother straightens and locks eyes with me for a moment. I almost forget to breathe in the intensity. Then she huffs angrily and hustles her daughter away.

I get into my car and drive off.

When I arrive at my mansion, the cold and silence greet me like old acquaintances. Dust-laden air mingles with the scent of old books and furniture. Switching on the Christmas lights does nothing to lift the dullness in my heart. My thoughts drift back to the encounter with the girl. I hope her mother doesn’t say too much about it. The townspeople have never liked me much. Most of all, I hope Mary finds her letter to Santa.

I step back into my ritual to settle my unease. I turn off the decorations and light a candle to read. I take a red book from the huge pile stacked on the mahogany desk. A golden cursive title gleams: The Quiet Catastrophes of Ordinary People.

I rarely touch these books or dust them; I am afraid of erasing his presence along with the dirt. My heart races when I recognize a faint, familiar scent—his scent. I open the book and, to my familiar surprise, chapter one is titled Fixing a Broken Day Before Breakfast.

I lean back, the book resting on my lap, and think of my late husband Richard.

He was absurd. Dramatic. A calm storm wrapped in laughter. He made mountains out of molehills, and somehow made you want to climb them anyway. He wasn’t just witty—he knew people, knew hearts, knew how to turn the smallest ordinary moments into stories worth remembering. That’s why everyone loved him. People read his books when they felt lonely, melancholic, neglected, or angry. He was the sunshine in my endless gray skies.

And yet somehow, people didn’t like us together. They liked us for his sake alone. They thought he deserved a cheerful wife just like him. But he loved me with all his heart. He came into my life like a bright ray of light in a dark, gloomy forest. My eyes warm, but I continue.

Snow strikes my window. I wipe my breath away and watch my reflection in the wavering candlelight. My face seems calm, but loss has carved silence into me.

Then I hear the doorbell. Frowning, I glance at the large clock—past midnight. Who would visit at this hour? Who would visit at all?

My heart thumps faster. I hope it’s not that woman.

Di–ding!

I open the door. No one. Only footprints lead to a large package on the porch, already fading in the snowstorm.

I hesitate. It could be another box of fan letters from those who don’t know Richard is gone. Rare, but it happens.

I open it. My eyes widen. A painting. But from whom? A fan? A painter friend? I am immensely confused. One thing is certain: it is one of the most vivid paintings I’ve ever seen. The detail is so precise I wonder if normal paint alone could achieve it.

Richard sits in an armchair beside a massive desk, surrounded by books and papers. His clothes, hands, the chair, even the texture of the book cover—captured in breathtaking realism. He holds a blue book titled Of Ghosts, Glory and Bad Decisions. Whoever painted this knew him. Knew how he sat when he read. Knew how one shoulder slouched lower than the other. Knew the exact sweater he wore on cold nights—the grey one I knitted.

Everything is vivid—except his face.

His features seem nearly complete, then softened at the last moment, brush strokes gently bleeding into the background. The pale warmth of his skin edges into the muted creams and faded ochres of the walls; the curve of his jaw melts imperceptibly into the shadowed corner of the ceiling. Light strikes his cheekbone, but the highlight bleeds outward. A small smile graces his lips, and his brown eyes gaze straight ahead.

This masterpiece must have taken months. I can’t hold it much longer; tears well up. We took photographs, but I always kept them in the basement. I read his words, but I cannot bear to look at him. Sobs overtake me as I stare at his portrait. It hurts—but I get to see him again.

It feels as if he is inside the painting itself. I hang it in the living room, near the window.

The next morning, I make tea and cake. I clean the house but leave the bookshelves in the living room untouched. I water the garden, spray insecticides, and knit myself a pair of gloves on the porch.

Afterward, I return to Richard’s books. As I walk to the sofa, a chill runs down my spine. I glance at the painting. His eyes are no longer forward. They shift to the left. I step back, blaming fatigue.

Later, I check again. Everything seems normal. Yet then I notice: the book in his hands is open to page fifty-five, not fifty-four. I almost lose my mind but convince myself I need rest.

These strange occurrences continue. Sometimes his mouth turns downward; sometimes his eyes glare with anger. The painting unsettles me, yet comforts me. He moves exactly as he did in life. I cling to the fleeting warmth of his presence.

I finally decide: I will live with Richard again. Even if it pains me, I will not let this chance slip away. I recognize my past, but as long as we are together in the present, the future does not seem so bleak.

While reading his books, I notice his eyes sorrowful in the painting. I feel what Richard feels. Streams of tears trickle down my cheeks. I speak to him:

“I’m sorry, Richard. Even though you came back to me, I still cannot redeem myself. Please forgive me. Again. For what I did, I wish someone would do to me too, then we could be together. I hope you’ll stay with me forever like this. I’m sorry.”

When I rise from my kneeling position, his gaze is cold and disappointed, as if I have failed him.

“Fine. If you will not accept it, I shall do what I dread most, my love. Anything for you.”

I spend the day searching his belongings: closets, bookshelves, then finally the basement. I find something I never expected—a thick leather journal tied with a long brown belt. I leave the basement and sit to read it.

The first entry records the day we met:

“I am a man blessed by the Gods to have crossed paths with a woman so perfectly meant for me. Her presence is not loud, nor does it demand, yet it draws you in like the quiet pull of sunlight through winter clouds. I remember that afternoon in the small town square, where children’s laughter mingled with the scent of fresh bread, and she stood there reading by the fountain, utterly unaware of the world—and of the man who had already lost his heart to her.”

I choke back a sob. Turning the pages, I gasp at his next words:

“I was diagnosed with ventricular fibrillation. If I didn’t take care of my heart, I could die suddenly… leaving my wife alone. So I decided not to tell her, because how could I burden her with a fear she could do nothing about? I wanted her to live freely, to laugh, to love… even if it meant hiding the shadow that hung quietly over my own chest.”

My chest tightens at the thought that he died of heart disease, not because I smothered him in my sleep. I had always doubted myself. Though I am plump, Richard was tall, strong, and muscular. But I didn’t know; my restless nocturnal movements made the only plausible explanation seem like my fault. I had woken up with my leg on his throat once and confessed at church that I killed my husband.

I glance at Richard as I head to the Mayor’s office. His expression is exactly the same as the night he first appeared.

The townspeople avoid me as usual. I tell the Mayor I have something important regarding Richard. He reacts angrily:

“You want to reopen Richard Hale’s case at Christmas? You’d better have a reason worth the town’s patience.”

Later, we sit together on the sofa, crying and comforting each other.

While knitting, I receive another delivery. A mail from the Mayor, inviting me to celebrate Christmas Eve with his family.