The Blizzard

[Fragment]

A man was caught in a sudden blizzard.

He hadn’t meant to be out there. It wasn’t some bold journey. Just a quiet walk that drifted too far, a sky that changed too fast. The storm hadn’t screamed at first—it whispered. And by the time it roared, he was already too deep in it.

The snow thickened around his legs. The wind pressed sideways against his chest.
His hands were numb. His jaw wouldn’t close right.
And now, up ahead, the path vanished into a drift—a wall of snow waist-deep, wind-packed and rising.
To keep going, he’d have to wade through it. Fight it.
And he just… couldn’t.

He hadn’t decided to stop.
Stopping had decided for him.

With what movement he had left, he pulled out his phone. Not for help—he knew better. But to speak. To be heard, maybe one last time.

The first friend said, “Hang in there! The sun’s going to come out later. You don’t know how warm it’ll get.”
He said nothing.
He thought: The sun is theory. The drift in front of me is real. I can’t walk through theory.

The second said, “You should’ve packed better. You knew this could happen.”
He nodded faintly.
He thought: You think I’m here because I misjudged. I’m here because the storm changed. Because it kept going, and I couldn’t.

The third said, “Think warm thoughts. Think of the people who love you. Imagine how sad they’d be if you froze.”

And he did.

He thought of his daughter’s laugh.
The comfort of home.
A pair of small hands tugging at his.
And for one breath, his heart felt warm.

Then he remembered.

They’d been on the mountain too.
He’d told them to turn back earlier.
They’d probably made it.
But they’d still had to go through the storm—
because of him.

And with that, the cold sank deeper.
Not wind this time—guilt.
A weight no coat could block.

The fourth friend said, “I was in a storm once. I nearly died. Lost some fingers. But now I’m on a beach. I made it. You can too.”
He smiled, barely.
He thought: You still had legs under you. My muscles are locked. My breath burns. The snow ahead might as well be a cliff.

Then the fifth friend said, “Damn. That’s brutal. I wish I could give you a coat or dig you out, but I’m not on the mountain. I can’t change the storm. I just… really hope you make it. But if you don't… thank you for everything.”

That one didn’t pretend. Didn’t moralize.
Just told the truth.
It wasn’t rescue. But it was real.
And it mattered.

Not enough to lift him.
But enough to keep his eyes open.
A few more minutes.

He wasn’t sure if he’d survive.
It wasn’t about effort.
It wasn’t about light.
It was about the wall of snow in front of him
—and whether he had anything left to push through it.

And whether the storm would pass
before he disappeared inside it.