Noise. Church bells in the distance resonate and wake him from stupor. He pauses in the midst of motion, hand still shaking in midair, fingers extended toward the open window.
Between the drapes, a sliver of burnt sky shines into the darkness, luminescent.
December 22, burning. The waning day settles oppressively against the snow on the street corners, alighting the cold in brief, vibrant color before melting into muck. He squints his eyes in an effort to see past the thick light falling through the square opening of his world.
Sunday, almost Sunday. Through the dark, the stone buildings mount up out of the horizon, a tower cross rising from the rounded domes. The sharp outline of a figure kneels beneath with arms outstretched as if to engulf the dying sun, straining to break free, a breath away from sheer sky. The edges of the silhouette jar into sunset, consumed, melting, blurring into air. Around the orange winter spins bright and fading, flaring into life then falling, resting. Closing, ending. Tomorrow will come. Gone.
He shuts his eyes as the clanging of church bells falter and cease.