If winter had a voice, it would be the sound that woke me up that morning — that deep, humming cold that slips under the door, climbs into your blankets, and reminds you that December doesn't care how tired you are. The radiator in my room kept clicking like it was fighting for its life, and honestly? Same.
I stretched under my comforter for a good thirty seconds, debating whether school was important enough to leave warmth for. Spoiler: it wasn't. But Mom wouldn't accept that logic.
My phone buzzed under my pillow with a text from my cousin Lydia — a dramatic "wake up" because she always arrived at school early for reasons no normal human understands. I ignored it and turned toward the window.
The world outside was quiet, drowned in that slow-moving winter blue. Snow covered the trees like they'd been dipped in sugar. The kind of morning people write poems about… but living inside it just feels like cold responsibility.
I finally kicked off the blanket and slid into my slippers, dragging myself into the hallway. My little brother, Caleb, was already up — running toy cars along the stair railing like he owned the place.
"You're going to fall," I warned, stepping around him.
"No, you're going to fall," he said, not looking up.
Classic nine-year-old logic.
In the living room, my older sister, Mariah, was sprawled across the couch with her headphones in, scrolling through her phone like she was allergic to morning conversation. She didn't even glance up as I passed.
I muttered, "Morning to you too," and kept walking.
The smell hit me as soon as I stepped into the kitchen — cinnamon, vanilla, and something warm and buttery. Mom was in full seasonal mode again, wearing her red Christmas apron with little snowmen dancing across it, humming along to an upbeat carol like she wasn't living the same cold reality as the rest of us.
"Good morning, sweetheart!" she chirped. She says it like a song — every single day — as if any of us are morning people.
Dad sat at the table with his newspaper open, glasses slipping down his nose. He gave me that quiet smile of his — soft and knowing, like he could sense every emotion in the room before anyone said it out loud.
"You look like you fought your alarm clock," he said.
"I did," I replied, grabbing a mug. "I won."
He laughed under his breath.
Mom slid a plate toward me — pancakes shaped like snowflakes and stars. She does this every December. Every morning. For the whole month. It's her thing. I don't mind it, but sometimes it feels like she's trying too hard to force Christmas cheer into everyone's bloodstream.
Caleb marched into the kitchen behind me, toy car in hand. "Can I have extra syrup?"
"You always ask that," Mom said. "And you always spill it."
He grinned. "But can I still, have it?"
She sighed but handed him the bottle.
Mariah finally strolled in, looking like she'd been dragged out of a dream she didn't want to leave. Her hair was in a messy bun, and her hoodie was zipped all the way up like she was hiding from real life.
"Morning," she mumbled.
Dad folded the newspaper. "Snow is supposed to get heavier this afternoon."
Mariah groaned dramatically. "Ugh, I hate walking in the snow."
"You hate walking anywhere," I teased.
She flicked a crumb at me.
Mom cleared her throat. "Girls, be nice. It's Christmas season."
I rolled my eyes slightly, chewing slowly. I love Christmas — I really do — but sometimes December here feels repetitive. Predictable. Like we're all stuck in the same loop every year. Same decorations. Same events. Same routine.
It wasn't anyone's fault. The town was just… quiet. Nice, but quiet. Cozy, but predictable.
And lately, I'd been feeling this weird tug inside me. Like the universe was nudging me with an elbow I kept ignoring. A restlessness. Like something was about to happen even though nothing ever happens in Maplewood Ridge.
Dad looked at me again — too observant, honestly — and raised a brow.
"You're awfully quiet."
"Just tired."
"You said that yesterday," he replied gently.
I shrugged. "And the day before."
He gave me the look. The "I know there's more, but I'll wait until you want to talk" look.
Mom placed her hands on her hips dramatically. "Maybe you kids need something exciting this Christmas. Something new. Something—"
"Mom, please don't say 'family snowball tournament,'" Mariah said.
Mom snapped her fingers. "Well, that was my Plan A…"
I almost smiled — almost.
Caleb interrupted by dropping syrup onto the table accidentally.
"Told you," I whispered.
He stuck out his tongue.
Dad stood and grabbed his coat. "I'll warm up the car. Finish eating, then grab your bags."
As he stepped out, the cold swept in briefly before the door closed again.
The house felt warm. Alive. Normal.
Too normal.
And when I took another bite of my pancake, the window rattled — just slightly. Like a quiet tap. Or a whisper. I paused, listening.
The wind, maybe.
But it didn't feel like the wind.
It felt… intentional.
I pushed the thought away and carried on with my morning, not knowing that soon — very soon — the normal world I clung to would melt away like snow on warm pavement.
And that whisper?
Yeah.
It wasn't the last time I heard it.