Benjamin Miller woke up and knew: something was wrong. Quiet. Too quiet. No rooster, no wind, no cow. Silence — white, soft, absolute.
He ran to the window. The world was white. All of it. Fence — white. Barn — white. Trees — white. Sky — white. Ground — white. Everything — white.
Benjamin is six. He saw snow last winter — but he was five, and doesn't remember (or remembers differently). This snow is the first real one.
Footprints
He ran out barefoot. Mom shouted: 'Boots!' He didn't hear. Snow was cold (of course) and wet (of course) and perfect (of course). He left prints — small, child-sized, on the white field. First prints in a world that started over.
Cat Moses sat on the porch watching Benjamin as if the boy had lost his mind. (Moses had seen 12 winters. For him snow was an inconvenience.)
Dad came out in boots. Looked at his barefoot son in the snow. Didn't scold. Stood. Remembered his own first snow — 1986, he was also six. Also barefoot. Also Mom shouting.
'Boots,' Dad said. Benjamin put them on. They walked together — to the barn, to feed the horse. Across the white world. Along the first footprints.