Year Written: 2026
My house never had heaters, and the sun was always swarmed by clouds. I was only prepared to be stuck in the winter. There was a time when my mother gave me mittens after I had cut myself with a knife, trying to convince me that my hand was fine. It was a time where I could feel both the heat and the death of my hand, covered by stained wool.
Now there is a scar, right between my index finger and thumb. It wasn’t very noticeable, nor was it that significant. I’d forget about it altogether.
But she asked me, “Who cut you there?”
My breath became hard to retain, as snow began to cover her and I liked it was a storm. We ran back inside to the school after our teachers shouted at us to do so. I never got to answer her, as she returned to her friends whom I harbored no connections with.
It’s been 6 years since then. I’ve never seen her since, and I have forgotten about her until my mother died a week ago. It was because of a cough. As I grazed her cheek with all the love I could muster, I noticed the scar, which has faded to the point that it’s basically gone. I couldn’t keep the tears from hitting her face.
I’ve then moved south, where the weather was calmer, cleaner, and warmer. It was last night when I found out that my hands were naturally cold, where even the striking rays of light couldn’t change it. No matter how many, or how strong, they were unable to get them warm.
The only reason I found out was because of a woman who held my scarred hand that night, and even though her face was filled with shock, her arms shaking, with a burst of dry laughter.
When I got up to speak to her, she wouldn’t let go of my hand. Looking more closely, I realized her hand had a scar, one similar to mine. I decided I’d let her keep my hand with her.
But she asked me, “Why did you go for it?”
My breath became hard to retain, and we both stood there in a moment of silence.
Before I could say a word, she grabbed my other hand and raised them both. Entwining her fingers with mine, she couldn’t keep the tears from hitting her face.
She asked me, “Did you know your hands are cold as hell?”
All I could say to her was “Sorry.”
But it seemed she liked that, her mouth making a smile.
She told me, “Wait until a meteor comes down. Maybe then, they’ll get warm.”
I said nothing.
She told me, “I’m sure a comet will turn into one eventually.”
I couldn’t help but snicker. I turned back, and for the first time, fear froze me in a way the cold never could. Staring down at the depths of the bridge, I moved closer to her hands.
On that night, my hands felt warm.