SEVEN DAYS OF SNOW

The snow had been falling for three days straight in Harrow, Vermont. Luna didn't mind. She liked the quiet that snow brought to her little bookstore, The Open Book. It gave her time to read, to breathe, to forget the one ability she hated about herself. She could see death. Not how. Just when. A small, cold number floating above someone's head. Three years. Ten days. Sixty years. She had learned not to tell anyone. The bell above the door chimed. Cold air rushed in, and with it, a man. Tall, dark hair dusted with snow, a black wool coat, city shoes not made for Vermont snow. He looked lost, and painfully handsome. Luna smiled politely, ready to ask if she could help him find something. Then she looked above his head. And her blood ran cold. 7 Days. The number glowed brighter than any she had ever seen. Seven days. This handsome stranger who had just walked into her bookstore was going to die in seven days. He looked at her, his eyes grey and stoic and tired. "Do you have anything warm?" Luna couldn't breathe. No one had ever had seven days before. No one she cared about. "I... yes," she whispered. "Stay. I'll make you coffee." For the first time in her life, she wanted to change the number.