Overnight the snow fell without a sound, and by morning the familiar street lies hushed beneath a smooth white blanket. Parked cars have become soft, rounded shapes, and the branches of the maple bend under their new weight. Sound seems to disappear, muffled by the fresh drifts, so that the scrape of a distant shovel carries oddly clear. A single line of footprints leads from a doorway to the corner and stops where someone must have turned back.
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