They hadn’t needed an argument, or a scene, or raised voices in the cold air. The storm had done the cruelest work for them: it made every choice visible. Ben stood there, eyes tracing the dark cuts through the white, each footprint a quiet betrayal. The tracks didn’t just cross his driveway; they crossed every easy story he’d ever told himself about his neighbors, about safety, about the kind of place he lived in.
Later, when the snow melted, the driveway looked ordinary again. Cars came and went, kids played, trash cans rolled back to the curb. But Ben couldn’t unsee the map the storm had drawn. The lesson stayed, sharp as ice: some truths don’t need to be spoken or proven. They wait in silence, patient and precise, until you finally dare to look.
