The Last Snowflake

The gas station sat on the edge of town, and past the barred windows and brightly lit lot, the vast, black gulf of night stretched to the stars.  For most of the year, the light of the rushing cars extended the fringe of the world with a few meters of asphalt and stringy weeds; now, in the winter, their passing lent color to the snow.

The woman swept through the automatic doors like the winter wind. She drifted down the isles, eyes fixed, her long white gown fluttering softly behind her. Strange folk came through in the early hours of the morning. Haunted faces, harried looks, and mumbled transactions filled my shifts. Each fleeing their own story. Each on their own way. Not my business. I had learned to nod and smile long ago.

This lady was something else. Not necessarily trouble, just different.

I watched the woman from behind the counter. It was impossible to ignore her. Her presence filled the small convenience store like a ton of snow: cold, white, and utterly silent.

When she approached, I saw that her face was a painted porcelain mask. A childlike, pouting face, lips purple from the cold. An unjust death for one so young. A poor orphan girl left out in the cold on Christmas. Have they no shame?

The roar of a car brought be back to the present.

She held out a small jeweled bird in her dead hands. We didn't sell ornaments.

I gritted my chattering teeth into a smile. Strange folk indeed. A job was a job: take their money, and send them on their way.

"Did you find everything you needed, ma'am?" I asked hoarsely.

Her pale glass eyes fixed on me sightlessly. Frost crinkled on the windows.

"And ah, please take half off the ornament. A courtesy from the owner."

Her hand swept out. I flinched back. Coins tinkled to the counter top. Perfectly transparent, the pile of change glittered like diamond in the halogen lights.

When I looked up, the woman was gone. A small puddle spread on the counter where the coins dissolved silently.