Softness brushes the glass pane, steadily patting at the window with delicate plush soles, the kind that make intricate embroidery patterns on freshly fallen snow, but no sounds, no sounds at all, ever.
I could have died a thousand ways
or not have lived at all. I could have sold my happiness for envy, rage, and gall. I could have drowned in grief and tears, and given up my soul. I could have followed on my fears
to falter, fail and fall.