The light outside was growing dim and it was dark in the room. She lit a small lamp and set it on the windowsill. Next to it, there was a small pot with a tiny lily of the valley in it. Its suave perfume wafted gently in the air.
Everything was still in the room, in the house. The floorboards screeching, the wind bellowing outside seemed too familiar, yet so far away. The fire was crackling in the hearth, warming up the air and making the room seem almost less empty.
She drew the curtain to the side and looked outside into the distance. The sharp winter wind was blowing the snow left and right into a storm. The naked tree branches were bending, refusing to break under the onslaught. The road was empty, as far as she could see. No man or animal would venture outside on such an evening. Maybe only the wolves, driven by hunger, were leaving their dens to roam the woods for prey.
Soon, it was too dark to see anything and she let the curtain drop over the window with a sigh.
The fire crackled and the wind continued its wail. On the windowsill, there was a small lily of the valley in a pot. The flower was withering. Many evenings had passed since he had given her the flower, since the winter had come back biting, since he'd left. The lamp flickered feebly in the window, waiting.