Five stages of grief; taegguk

the snow falls

The bus doors creak as they swing open, and the man is pushed forward into the cold street, forced around continuously by the people that exit after him and are seemingly late to somewhere; everybody has a place to be, a person to be with.

He looks around sleepily, eyes blinking slowly but enough just so he can distinguish the chatter and unmistakable buzz of a town that's getting ready for Christmas, too lost in their little dreamy world to notice the familiar stranger walking down the busy road. 

The sharp breeze ruffles his freshly dyed purple hair, and the cold stabs pointed blades into the plush of his cheeks, and to stop it, the man pulls the fluffy cloth of his scarf higher, covering his nose and jaw, pink from the evening chill. It doesn't help, really, because as much as Japan countryside's warm in summer, it is also absolutely frigid when winter starts. 

The box he's holding burns into the sensitive skin of his palms, as if the guilt of carrying it has transferred to its contents instead, finding no compassion in the man's heart.

It's only as the last bits of sunshine peek over the low roofs of the village and illuminate his side profile that the man starts to draw attention from the bypassers. The male, tall and lanky in build with shoulders that are just somewhat too broad for his lean chest and narrow waist, legs appearing longer in the suit he's wearing, is quite a sight to see in a town so small, and it is safe to say no one has ever seen someone as mesmerizing as he is. 

The man tries not to scoff because they have, in fact, seen him before; it's just that he wasn't as clearly rich as he is now back then, and people simply chose to ignore him.

But as dull as his feelings are for this small town in particular, he doesn't allow them to show on his face, instead, his steps don't falter one bit as he strides through the streets, clutching the box to his chest tightly.

When the sun starts to set slowly, the Christmas lights start to flicker back to life and so do the people; the route is suddenly even more crowded than before as if the night creatures just joined the stroll. He's truly relieved when he spots the entrance of the post office, it too lit up by the lanterns.

Taking a moment to disappointingly mull over the repelling style of decoration, the man's steps come to a halt right in front of the big mailbox, adorned with a dancing Santa and different glittery Christmas ornaments (he knows ripping it off would likely be illegal and mean, but come on), before he promptly leans the box he's been holding against its top.

His long crooked fingers shake as he takes off the lid, revealing an enormous stash of letters inside, all wrapped in either baby pink or a pretty shade of orange. 

A tender understanding sigh leaving his lips, the man starts to slide the letters into the mailbox, one by one, slowly, each, until the box is empty and his hands feel unnatural from the void that remains.

Casting his eyes to the sky, the first snowflake lands on his nose.