The phone rang.
Not loudly—just enough to be annoying.
It vibrated against the wooden bedside table, skidding a few centimeters with each pulse like it was trying to escape its own responsibility. The sound slipped under the thick blanket, through the heavy quiet of the room, and straight into Raitha's dreams.
She groaned.
One leg shifted. An arm flopped outward. The blanket tightened its grip, heavy and warm and unforgiving, like it had made a personal vow to keep her imprisoned until noon officially surrendered.
The phone rang again.
"Hello…?"
Her voice came out soft, half-buried, scraped raw by sleep. She didn't even open her eyes at first—just turned her head slightly and fumbled for the phone, fingers brushing past it twice before finally catching the edge.
"Who…?"
She sat up slowly, the blanket slipping down her shoulders in protest. The room was washed in pale noon light, sunlight spilling lazily through the open window like it had nowhere better to be. Dust motes floated in the air, slow and unbothered.
Her index finger glowed faintly as it passed through the light—still smudged with dried finger paint, blue and yellow layered over each other from last night. She noticed it briefly, blinking at it like it was someone else's hand.
Then the voice reached her ears properly.
"Oh—"
Her posture changed instantly. Shoulders straightened. Spine awake.
"Oh! Shyam! What's up?"
The sleep vanished like it had been caught stealing.
Outside, December crept in through the open window. The cold slipped across her skin, sharp and clean, raising goosebumps along her arms. Her hair—long, pale, molten-snow colored—slid forward over her shoulders as she leaned toward the phone.
On the other end, there was a pause. Just long enough for her to imagine him chewing something, debating whether to say it.
"I was thinking," he began, voice deliberately casual, "would you like to meet up today? At Bhara station."
Her gaze drifted toward the window.
The sky was pale and distant, like it had been scrubbed too clean. Snowfall danced far away, drifting sideways in thin sheets, never quite reaching her window. The wind pushed it away, keeping the world at arm's length.
"Today?" she echoed.
She didn't mean to sound surprised.
But it slipped out anyway.
"Yup."
Just that. Simple. Firm.
There was something in his tone—an insistence that pretended not to be one. She pictured him leaning somewhere, probably already dressed, already decided.
Before she could respond—
"I'll be waiting."
The call ended.
She stared at the phone.
Just stared.
For a long moment, the room was quiet again. The curtain lifted and fell as the cold air passed through, as if the house itself was breathing. Somewhere outside, a distant horn blared, muffled by snow.
"Huph…"
She dropped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Can't do anything about it. Gotta go."
She lay there for exactly five more seconds.
Then she rolled out of bed.
Her slippers waited beside it, one flipped sideways like it had lost hope. She slid her feet into them without fixing it and shuffled toward the door, posture slouched, hair wild, eyes half-lidded—walking like a zombie who had been given a very specific quest.
"Raitha!"
The voice came from downstairs, sharp enough to cut through her fog.
"Are you awake?"
"Yes…!" she called back, already halfway down the stairs.
Each step creaked faintly under her weight, the house complaining softly like an old relative who hated sudden movement. The air grew warmer as she descended.
Then the smell hit her.
Steam curled lazily through the dining room, thick with spices, oil, rice—comfort layered over comfort. Her steps slowed. Her brain, still lagging behind her body, finally caught up.
The dining table was full.
Not "breakfast full."
Full-full.
Multiple dishes. Covered bowls. Steam rising in little ghostly trails. Someone had planned this.
"Mom…?" Raitha whispered, peeking toward the kitchen like she was afraid the food might vanish if she startled it.
"Yes?"
Her mother's voice came from the far corner of the room—old, calm, carrying the kind of warmth that never really faded with age.
"Who is all this food for?" Raitha asked, stepping closer, eyes scanning the table.
"For Shyam, who else?" her mother replied, not even turning around.
Raitha froze.
"What?"
Her head snapped up. "He's coming today?"
Bhara station.
The place they always met.
The place where—two years ago—they had stood awkwardly under a freezing night sky, hands brushing, words stumbling over themselves until confession spilled out in broken sentences and trembling breaths.
The place where everything had quietly, permanently changed.
"Haven't he called you yet?" her mother asked, concern slipping into her voice as she finally turned. "He said he would around now—"
"No no!" Raitha blurted, already moving. "He did!"
She spun on her heel and rushed toward the bathroom, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. "I'll be leaving soon!"
"Don't rush," her mother called after her. "Eat before you go."
"Sure!" Raitha shouted back, already squeezing toothpaste onto her brush.
The mirror reflected a mess—hair everywhere, eyes still soft with sleep, cheeks faintly flushed from the cold. She brushed fast, aggressively, like the mint could wake her up quicker if she punished it enough.
Her thoughts raced.
He was waiting.
He always waited.
She rinsed, wiped her mouth, splashed water on her face—and paused.
For a moment, she stared at herself.
Then she smiled.
Just a little.
Back in her room, she changed quickly—pulling on warmer clothes, fumbling with buttons, sitting down to tug on socks that refused to cooperate. She tied her hair twice because the first attempt felt wrong.
Downstairs, her mother watched quietly as Raitha grabbed a few hurried bites, barely tasting them.
"Be careful," she said gently.
"I will," Raitha replied, already halfway to the door.
The cold hit her the moment she stepped outside. December wrapped around her like a warning. She pulled her jacket tighter and started walking, breath puffing out in little clouds.
Behind her, the house stayed warm.
Ahead of her—
Bhara waited.
"Be careful," his mother said again.
She stood near the doorway, arms folded loosely, eyes sharp in the way only mothers' eyes ever were—watching not just his body, but his intentions. Her pitch-black hair was tied back hastily, a few strands already escaping and waving even though there was barely any wind.
"I know, Mom," Shyam replied, adjusting the strap of his bag for the third time. It was already tight enough to bruise his shoulder, but loosening it felt wrong. Today wasn't a day for things slipping.
She sighed. "December roads aren't forgiving."
"They never are," he said with a small smile.
There was a pause. The kind that came right before something important but familiar.
"Say hi to Raitha for me," she added.
His smile widened despite himself. "I will."
She watched him step outside, watched the cold bite at him immediately, watched him mount his bicycle with that impatient energy she'd known since he was a boy.
"Yes, Mom, I'm going," he laughed when she opened her mouth again. "She might be there any moment."
He pushed off before she could say anything else.
The wind met him head-on.
December wasn't cruel—it was honest. The cold burned his lungs with every breath, his fingers stung despite the gloves, and his cheeks went numb almost instantly. The road stretched ahead, pale and damp, bordered by fields that looked asleep beneath frost.
He pedaled steadily.
Houses thinned out quickly, replaced by open land. Crops stood quiet, brittle, the green muted into dull silver under winter's breath. Somewhere in the distance, birds lifted lazily, uninterested in the season's drama.
His breath fogged the air.
He slowed just enough to look around.
It was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
His thoughts, of course, didn't stay quiet for long.
Just how did I end up with a girlfriend this gorgeous?
The thought came uninvited, ridiculous and sincere at the same time. He shook his head, half-laughing, pedaling faster like he could outrun his own disbelief.
Two years.
Two years since Bhara stopped being just a station.
The sign for BHARA appeared just as his legs began to protest.
He coasted in, parked his bicycle carefully—too carefully—and locked it twice even though one lock would have done. The station smelled like iron and old dust, like places where people passed through but never stayed.
The platform wasn't crowded yet.
A few travelers sat scattered across benches, bags at their feet, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Vendors called out half-heartedly, voices dull from repetition.
Shyam walked straight to the ticket counter.
"Two for Rasagi," he said, not hesitating.
The clerk barely glanced up.
Tickets slid across the counter, warm from another hand.
He folded them once. Then again. Then stopped, forcing himself not to crease them into oblivion.
The bench waited.
The same one.
He sat down, bag resting beside him, elbows on his knees. His foot bounced unconsciously against the concrete.
He checked his phone.
No messages.
Of course.
He leaned back, exhaling slowly, eyes drifting to the tracks. Steel lines stretched forward, disappearing into distance, into places he didn't need to imagine today.
They had talked here.
Laughed here.
Fumbled through confessions here, words tripping over themselves like they were afraid of being said out loud.
He remembered the cold that night. Remembered how her hands had trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of what she was admitting.
The memory settled into him like a familiar ache.
Then—
Something touched his shoulder.
Light. Certain.
He smiled before he turned.
"Someone's excited," he murmured.
"So are you," she replied.
Raitha stood there, finger lifted teasingly, eyes bright despite the cold. Her hair was tied back now, a few strands already escaping and brushing her cheeks. Her jacket looked too big on her, sleeves swallowing her hands.
She dropped onto the bench beside him with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in her chest.
"That bad?" he asked, angling himself toward her.
She leaned back, staring up at the station roof. "Crowded. Loud. And—"
She paused.
"Some guy tried to molest me the moment I got on," she said flatly.
Shyam's body stiffened.
"I kicked his balls."
He blinked. Once. Then again.
"…Good."
"They still go around," she added, voice tight with leftover anger.
"Unfortunately."
She huffed. "Probably single forever."
Shyam exhaled slowly, jaw tight. "I feel bad for his balls."
She snorted.
"Not him," Shyam added quickly. "Anyone trying to touch my future wife deserves worse."
She turned to him slowly.
"Future wife…?" she repeated, eyes narrowing just enough to be dangerous.
He cleared his throat and fished the tickets out of his pocket like they were suddenly very important. "Train's coming soon. Should we wait here or walk around a bit?"
She watched him for a second longer, then smirked. "Coward."
"Answer the question."
"I want to sit," she said, rubbing her face with both hands. "It was hectic."
He nodded. "Okay."
They sat.
Close—but not touching yet.
The announcement crackled overhead, distorted and tinny.
"Train number 11133 for Rasagi station will arrive within thirty minutes."
Raitha leaned back, eyes closed.
Shyam glanced at her, then quickly looked away, pretending not to memorize the way her shoulders rose and fell with each breath.
They were sitting on the same bench.
The same one.
He remembered the cold metal beneath his palms that night. Remembered how she had laughed nervously, how her breath had fogged between them, how his heart had tried to escape his chest.
She opened her eyes suddenly.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you?"
He blinked. "About what?"
"Us. Back then."
He smiled softly. "Yeah."
She shifted closer, just enough for their sleeves to brush.
"I remember everything," she said quietly. "Every second."
"So do I."
The station noise faded into the background—not gone, just distant. Like it respected the space between them.
A train pulled in on another platform, wind rushing past, rattling her hair loose again. She reached up automatically to fix it.
Shyam watched.
Then, without thinking, he reached out and tucked a strand behind her ear.
His hand lingered for half a second too long.
She didn't pull away.
The cold didn't feel as sharp anymore.
They sat like that—waiting, not rushing, letting time behave for once.
The train ride to Rasagi was quieter than Raitha expected.
Not because the compartment wasn't full—it was—but because the noise blended into something distant and harmless. Conversations overlapped into an indistinct murmur, metal wheels sang against the tracks, and somewhere a child laughed too loudly before being shushed.
Raitha sat by the window, forehead resting lightly against the cold glass.
Outside, the world slid past in muted colors—fields softened by frost, houses tucked in close like they were conserving warmth, trees stripped bare but standing patiently anyway. Snow hadn't blocked the tracks this time, though thin white lines hugged the edges, stubborn and lingering.
Shyam sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched every time the train swayed.
Neither of them moved away.
"You tired?" he asked softly.
"A bit," she replied, eyes still on the passing scenery. "But it's the good kind."
He nodded, understanding without needing clarification.
They didn't talk much after that. And it wasn't awkward.
Sometimes her fingers brushed his on the seat between them. Sometimes his knee bumped hers when the train jerked. Each small contact registered fully, like the world had slowed down just to make sure they noticed.
When the announcement finally crackled—
"Next station: Rasagi."
—Raitha straightened, energy returning to her limbs.
"Home," she murmured.
Shyam smiled at the word.
Rasagi welcomed them with familiarity.
The station was smaller, quieter, its sounds softer, less hurried. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke and cold stone. Raitha stepped down from the train first, boots hitting the platform with a practiced confidence.
She stretched her arms above her head. "I missed this."
Shyam followed, adjusting his bag. "It suits you."
Her house wasn't far—just far enough that the chaotic noise of the tracks faded into a distant hum. The path was familiar beneath her feet, every turn known, every uneven stone remembered.
"I'm back!" Raitha announced the moment she stepped inside, kicking off her shoes with professional precision.
Shyam attempted to follow her example.
The shoes resisted.
"Impressive," she commented, watching him struggle.
"Shut up," he muttered, finally freeing himself.
The house was warm.
Blue decorations lined the walls—soft lights, ribbons, small ornaments placed carefully, lovingly. The end of the year hung in the air, quiet but present.
"Thanks for having me," Shyam said politely, stepping inside properly.
Rohani smiled at him like she'd been expecting him all along.
Food appeared. Laughter followed. Stories unfolded—most of them involving Raitha's father being far more romantic than Shyam could ever hope to be, according to Rohani.
"Be romantic when I'm not around!" Rohani scolded when Raitha protested.
"And your dad was much more—"
Raitha groaned. "Here we go."
Shyam smiled into his food, listening, eating, warming from the inside out.
Eventually, the stories slowed. Plates emptied. The clock crept forward unnoticed.
Rohani stood. "We're going out for a bit."
Raitha blinked. "What?"
"Don't wait up," her mother added casually, grabbing her coat.
The door closed.
Silence settled.
Raitha stared at it for a second.
"She either lied," she muttered, dragging a blanket into the living room, "or my dad planned this."
Shyam laughed softly, peeling an orange with deliberate care. The scent filled the room, fresh and bright.
"It's good," he said. "They get their time. We get ours."
She watched him for a moment, then crawled into his lap without warning, curling there like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You're heavy," he said weakly.
"You're comfortable," she replied, resting her head against his chest.
The television murmured uselessly in the background. Outside, the cold pressed against the windows, unable to get in.
"You know," he said quietly, fingers brushing her hair, "I thought you'd be… calmer."
She huffed. "Disappointed?"
"No," he said immediately. "Relieved."
She shifted, looking up at him. "Do you like the me from before… or the me now?"
The question wasn't playful this time.
He didn't rush.
"I liked you before," he said finally. "But I love you now."
Her breath caught—not dramatically, just enough.
They sat like that, heartbeats loud in the quiet room.
"Three minutes," Shyam whispered when he leaned in, stopping just before their lips touched.
Raitha turned away with a soft huff, cheeks warm. "Then don't start what you won't finish."
"Did I turn you on?"
She stood abruptly. "Did you make me want to punch you?"
She walked to the balcony.
He followed.
The door slid open. Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean. Lights dotted the town unevenly, houses glowing like scattered stars. Somewhere far away, voices counted down prematurely.
"I can't believe it's ending," she said softly.
"I know," he replied. "Feels like it went by too fast… and too slow."
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, careful, gentle. She startled, then relaxed into him, hands curling over his.
"I wish," he whispered, "that I never had to think about losing you."
She exhaled slowly. "Then you wouldn't have met me."
He turned her toward him, brushing her hair back.
"I love you."
She smiled, small and sure. "Not a joke?"
"Never."
Fireworks exploded overhead, sudden and bright.
"I didn't know they did fireworks," she laughed, stepping back.
"They're pretty," she said, turning to him.
He was still there. Still close.
"Yeah," he said.
She closed the distance.
Soft. Certain. Warm.
Her hands held his wrists, grounding him.
The clock turned.
00:00:00
"I love you too," she said, laughing through it.
Then, louder—
"Forever."
The fireworks roared. The new year arrived not with fear or noise, but with warmth, shared breath, and the quiet certainty that—at least for this moment—everything was enough.
----
As the year turns and the noise slowly fades, I hope you find a moment like this too.
A moment where the world doesn't ask you to hurry.
Where the past doesn't chase you.
Where the future doesn't scare you.
Just warmth.
Just presence.
Just someone—or something—that reminds you why staying was worth it.
This chapter, Snowfall in December, was never about the cold.
It was about choosing warmth anyway.
About waiting. About returning. About loving without needing fireworks—
even when fireworks arrive.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for staying till the end.
Thank you for carrying these quiet moments with me into the next year.
May this new year bring you:
gentler mornings
safer nights
conversations that linger
and love that doesn't need to shout to be real
From noobBooks studio,
and from me—
Happy New Year.
May we keep finding our way back to warmth. ❄️🤍