It was snowing, that light kind of snow that feels more like memory than weather. The streets were empty, save for the hum of distant traffic and the occasional crunch of my boots on salted concrete. I had stayed too long somewhere I didn’t belong, again, and was walking home in silence that didn’t feel peaceful. Just necessary.

That’s when I saw it. A lone goose, standing beneath a streetlamp like it was waiting for someone. Its feathers puffed against the cold, its eyes unbothered. It looked at me, then began to follow.

What We Carry Home

I unlocked the front door and paused. The goose waited on the sidewalk, not trying to enter, just watching. I felt an odd mix of guilt and comfort, the kind that shows up when someone, anything, witnesses you in your aloneness without trying to fix it.

I poured a glass of whiskey. Sat by the window. Watched it settle in the snow outside, neck tucked under wing, completely still. It didn’t ask for warmth, didn’t force its way in. Just stayed. It reminded me of people I’d pushed away. The ones who stayed nearby even when I closed the door. The ones I didn’t know how to let in, or didn’t think I deserved to. It reminded me of how solitude sometimes becomes armor, and how silence can feel safer than the risk of being loved.