The Unlucky Snowed In
736 Words
Elara woke to a silence so complete it made her ears ache. The street outside was swallowed under another blanket of snow. The wind howled against the old Victorian frame like it had a personal vendetta. The thin quilt over her shoulders did nothing to warm her, and the radiator in the corner groaned and wheezed as if it had given up too.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her boots scraped against the wooden floor. Every movement felt sluggish and weighted, as though the snow outside had seeped into her limbs. She dragged the suitcase closer to unpack and cursed the jagged handle under her palm. It was a sharp reminder that nothing about this trip would be easy.
Her phone buzzed once before blinking a low battery warning. She called the airline again. An automated voice promised someone would help her eventually, but the line remained busy. The hold music was tinny and mocking. She hung up, the cord of frustration snapping tighter in her chest.
The room was small, cold, and unyielding. The Wi-Fi barely worked, cutting out the moment she searched for local takeout. When she checked the vending machine in the foyer, it offered nothing but stale chips and sodden chocolate bars. She took a deep breath, tugged the quilt higher over her shoulders, and trudged down the narrow hall.
The B&B owner, a woman whose face looked like a crumpled map, looked up from her crossword.
“Heat’s only on in the common rooms,” she said. “If you want it warmer, you can light a candle. Watch your hair, though. This old wiring doesn’t play nice with the lights.”
Elara nodded and muttered a thankless acknowledgment. She picked a candle from a dusty shelf and carried it back to her room. The thin flame shivered against the draft. She tried to focus on something mundane like stacking her clothes, but every little task was a struggle. Her fingers ached with the cold.
The wind rattled the windows violently. Snow pressed against the glass in thick, suffocating layers. Elara pressed her palm to the pane. The cold seeped through her skin and into her bones. She imagined being trapped here for days while the blizzard tightened its grip. Her stomach growled again. The vending machine chips were as stale as the look in the owner’s eyes.
A knock on the door startled her.
She opened it to find a man in his mid thirties. He wore a soaked parka and looked equally battered by the world. He was red-nosed and shivering, the very picture of defeat.
“Room 2B?” he asked. “I was wondering if anyone’s heading out for food? Or anything?”
Elara studied him. For a second, she wanted to offer a word of camaraderie, but the truth weighed heavier than politeness. She was at her limit.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m stuck here too.”
The man muttered something that might have been a thanks and shuffled back toward the stairs. The encounter left a strange residue of irritation in her chest. Even a simple connection felt impossible when everyone was this miserable.
She returned to her window and brought the candle with her. The snow had piled higher and the wind’s howl had grown into something almost alive. She pressed her forehead against the glass. The cottage three states away—the cedar smoke and the quiet warmth—felt like a memory of someone else’s life.
Her phone buzzed one last time.
Flight status: Canceled. Next available: December 17th.
Two more days. A wave of numbness passed through her, followed by a dark, stubborn determination. It wasn't hope. It was just the will to survive the next few hours without collapsing.
She arranged the thin quilt around her like armor and sank into the chair by the window. Snowflakes slapped against the glass, relentless and quiet. The world didn’t care about her plans or her hunger.
The wind raged on, and a shiver ran down her spine. It wasn't just the cold. It was the certainty that the blizzard would not release its grip easily. She was trapped, she was alone, and in this town, that was the most dangerous thing of all.
- Writer
