The snow fell, quietly, relentlessly.  Each footstep crunched as flakes were packed tightly together on the ground.  Soon enough, more flakes filled the impressions, erasing them.  There was little wind and no other sound.  In the dark of the night, the snow provided its own luminescence.

Nothing else moved.  He walked, and the rest of the world might have been empty.  Where he went did not matter.  No one waited for him.  No one was looking for him.  Perhaps no one even knew he existed.  And it did not matter.

The cold provided its own version of comfort.  It demanded nothing, asked nothing.  It shared of itself freely, embracing everything in its purview.  The snow was its messenger, the blanket it provided the world.  It accepted his movement, ignoring the disturbance.

He walked all night, and the snow kept pace.  One foot in front of the other; one flake on top of another.  Only with the first hint of sunrise did he stop.  He laid down where he was and fell asleep.  But the meager light did not drive away the cold, nor deter the snow.  It continued to fall.