That night, everyone agreed to be still. Front doors stood firm, no one opened them lest the snow be swept aside, or clumsy boots crunch holes in it. The thought of tire tracks was repugnant, made us squint and shake our head. Peace was spreading, or rather falling, and leveling out over crushed beer cans and broken glass. That night, as snow fell, it covered our ugliness and gave us the illusion of peace, pristine and quiet. We wanted to it to be real, if only for a night.
posted for the friday fictioneers thingy