# Traces on a Winter Day

## Faint Lines in Fresh Snow

On a crisp morning like this one—December 13, 2025, with frost etching the windows—a fresh snowfall turns the world into a blank page. A single step presses a trace into the powder: the outline of a boot, imperfect and soon to soften. These marks aren't grand statements. They're quiet evidence of movement, of being here. In life, our days unfold the same way. We walk, work, touch others, and leave behind these subtle impressions—words spoken softly, a hand extended, a task quietly finished.

## Following What Remains

What draws us to a trace? It's the pull of curiosity, the urge to see where a path leads. A deer's print vanishes into the woods, inviting us to wonder about its journey. Our own traces work similarly. A child's drawing on scrap paper, yellowed letters in a drawer, or notes scribbled in haste—they guide us back to forgotten moments. They remind us that nothing is truly lost; it lingers in faint form, ready to be retraced. In this, there's a gentle wisdom: pay attention to the small lines. They connect yesterday to today.

## The Meaning in What Fades

Traces teach impermanence without despair. The sun will melt the snow, wind will scatter sand from a beach print, yet the act of making them matters. Each one says, "I was here, and it shaped what follows." We don't need monuments. A kind glance, a shared silence—these endure in memory's soft etchings.

- A parent's bedtime story, retold in dreams.
- A friend's advice, echoed in tough hours.
- Our daily steps, building unseen paths.

*Trace lightly, but trace truly—it's enough.*