The Last Walk

Alice stepped outside as the sky dimmed to that uncertain hour when afternoon surrendered to winter night. The cold struck her at once. She paused on the threshold of her doorstep to draw her scarf higher, though she could not remember when she had begun wearing one or where it had come from.

A man’s coat lay folded over her arm. It was made of heavy navy wool, the kind that held its shape even when unworn. She had meant to return it sooner. Weeks ago, perhaps longer. It felt impolite to keep something that wasn’t hers, even if no one had come looking for it.

She set off down the street. Her boots made no sound on the snow-dusted pavement, not even a soft crunch.

The town looked as it always had in winter. Its streets ran narrow between small, mismatched houses, no two quite alike. Each house had its own porch sagging beneath a dusting of snow, their railings rimmed white, and steps worn smooth by years of coming and going. Porch swings dangled motionless from birch trees with half-buried drifts collecting beneath them. Opaque frost clouded the windows. She passed the bakery on the corner. Its sign creaked softly in the wind. Darkness filled the windows, however she could have sworn they used to keep a lamp burning after hours.

Maybe it was late. Or perhaps too early in the season.

Winter muddied time that way, stretching and folding it until certainty thinned.

As she walked, she tried to recall when she had borrowed the coat. A brutal storm surfaced first. Yes, a storm that had arrived faster than expected, stealing both breath and direction alike. She remembered standing in someone’s doorway after an evening gathering, stamping snow from her boots, cheeks burning from wine as she laughed at her own unpreparedness. The room behind her had been warm, full of voices and lamplight.

You’ll freeze, someone had said.

She waved the concern away, as she always did.

The street she walked sloped toward the river, but she turned aside before reaching it and passed the old bookshop instead. Its faded sign creaked faintly; notices yellowed with age crowded the window. Blackness filled the shop. Closed, just like the rest.

She frowned as she walked past. Hadn’t it been newly opened just days ago? She slowed, trying to place herself in that memory, but it slid away from her like mist.

No matter. Shops closed. People moved on.

What struck her then was the absence of others. A week before Christmas, and there were no hurried footsteps, no doors opening, no laughter spilling out into the street. The town folk seemed to have vanished, as though hiding from the cold.

She tightened her grip on the coat and peered down at it, tracing the seam with her thumb.

The man had offered it to her with a kind of reluctant insistence. She pictured his outstretched arms, the fabric still warm from his body, the scent of cedarwood sticking faintly to the material.

At least take this, he’d said. Bring it back next week when we meet again.

She had hesitated. Pride, perhaps. Or impatience. She had somewhere to be. Somewhere important, but the destination now slipped away whenever she tried to name it.

She had taken his coat in the end.

The man’s house stood at the edge of the older part of town, where buildings leaned heavier with years. She slowed as she approached it.

Emptiness greeted her.

Undisturbed snow gathered along the steps. The windows were dark and the curtains were drawn tight against the world. Doubt flickered. For a moment she wondered if she came to the wrong place, but no, she recognized the slope of the roof, the familiar ruby red of the door, and the paint chipped near the brass handle.

She climbed the steps and reached out. Her knuckles hovered shy of the splintered wood.

Another memory surfaced of a worsening storm where the snow thickened until the world blurred and wind rose violently, biting through wool and skin.

Stay the night.

The man’s voice rose again, firmer now.

She drew her hand back.

Instead, she laid the coat carefully by the front doorstep and lingered there, uncertain of what to do next. Minutes later, she found herself drifting back toward the middle of town. A few lamps burned brighter now. The square lay empty. Its open space was framed by low shopfronts. At the centre, a dry fountain sat crusted with ice surrounded by benches that lay half-buried in snow. The clock above the post office sat frozen at seven in the evening.

By the post office, the notice board stood where it always had.

She stopped before it and saw the sheet of paper stapled to the wood. Its corners curled softly, dampened by snow. The ink was bold and black. Beneath the headline was a small photograph, already freckled with melting snowflakes.

Alice stared back at herself.

The picture was taken months ago, on a hike through a national park in Quebec. She remembered that day. The long trail through the snowy forest, the air sharp with every breath, the biting cold on her nose. In the photograph she was caught mid-laugh, cheeks flushed from exertion.

She read the obituary.

ALICE SMITH FOUND AFTER THE STORM.

Found by the riverbank near the old path, having lost her way during last night’s snowfall. She was twenty-four.

Loving daughter of Margaret and Thomas Smith, and a friend to many in the community. A funeral will be held Thursday at St. Matthew’s Church at noon. Friends and neighbors are invited to attend.

She lifted her hand and touched the paper. Her touch met nothing at all. Her hand passed through the page as though it were smoke.

The truth settled slowly. The errand was finished. The borrowed coat returned. The path she followed ended here and there was nowhere left to walk to.

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.