After the snow, everything slows. The city hushes. The air smells cleaner—cold, but open. You start to notice things that usually vanish beneath routine: the outline of a door, the way light moves across metal, the pause between footsteps.
That morning, the car wasn’t special. But the snow made it matter. Not by changing it, but by softening the space around it. Giving it permission to be seen without having to perform.
Maybe that’s what snow does best.
It doesn’t cover.
It quiets everything around a thing, until you can finally hear it.
Not everything that stays still is waiting.
Some things are simply being—
unrushed, unnamed, and fully there.
The snow won’t stay.
But for a moment, it teaches you how to see.
