A SHORT STORY

I’m excited to share my short story, Footprints in the Snow, which received Special Recognition in the Writers Weekly Winter 2025 short story contest. I hope you enjoy it!

Footprints in the Snow

by Josephine Strand

Outside Matt’s window, the view was one of serene beauty and stillness, wrapped in a soft snowy blanket. The world seemed frozen in time, except for the curls of chimney smoke rising from the rooftops.

He stirred sugar into his morning coffee. “Looks like we’re getting a white Christmas, Eleanor-girl,” he said to his wife. The silence that ensued reminded him that she could neither hear him, nor admire the view. Not from where he was standing, anyway. She’d been gone almost ten months, yet it was as if her presence never left his side.

After rinsing his cup, he slipped on his insulated jacket and tugged the old frontier cap—the one Eleanor hated so much—snugly over his head. Stepping out into the crisp morning air, he made his way to the garage to grab the snow shovel. Soon enough, the neighborhood kids would swarm the streets, eager to make a few bucks clearing snow. Their enthusiasm was admirable, but their work was always sloppy, and he preferred to do it himself.

He’d barely started clearing the snow off his porch when he spotted the Daniels boy trudging along the sidewalk. The kid’s beanie-covered head was tucked low against his collar, a shovel slung over his shoulder. As he neared, he raised a mittened hand in greeting.

“Good morning, Mr. Stewart! Need help clearing your driveway?”

Matt straightened and gave him a nod. “Good morning, William. Thanks, but I’ve got it covered.”

Something tugged at Matt as he watched the boy. It happened every time he saw him, that odd little kick in his chest. He couldn’t quite place it—just a vague sense of familiarity that lingered on the edges of his brain, like a forgotten name. The family had moved into the neighborhood in the spring—a couple with two teenage kids. Nice people. They were always polite and courteous with him whenever he encountered them.

After a pause, he relented. “On second thought, how about this? You tackle the driveway while I clear the walkway. I’ll give you ten bucks.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Deal, Mr. Stewart!”

Matt barely made a dent in the walkway when he noticed them: large footprints trailing across the snowy garden, leading to the shed. He froze. A burglar? But there were no tracks returning. A squatter?

He chuckled to himself as he followed the footprints. More likely one of the Henderson boys pulling a prank. He’d hoped they’d outgrown such mischief, but apparently not.

When he reached the shed, the door was ajar. Inside, there was no sign of life. Everything seemed in place, except for a scattering of papers on the floor. Probably the wind when the door had been left open, he thought, crouching to gather them.
The papers were a jumble of Eleanor’s keepsakes—handwritten recipes, vintage postcards, old receipts, stuff he’d never gotten down to throwing out. Among them, a photograph caught his eye.

Matt held it up to the light, his breath catching. A black-and-white snapshot of a younger version of Eleanor, taken a year after their marriage. Eleanor had been pregnant with their first baby, then, glowing with joy. With her was another young woman. His knees nearly gave out. He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes locked on the other figure: Ginny. Eleanor’s best friend.

Memories rushed in, sharp and unforgiving. Ginny, one moment vibrant and full of life, the next telling him she was pregnant before vanishing from their lives. The shame, the guilt, the unanswered questions for a moment of weakness he’d forever regret.

Matt pulled out a dusty old stool and lowered himself on it. His and Eleanor’s baby hadn’t made it, and there hadn’t been any other pregnancies after that. He’d always believed it was his punishment for betraying Eleanor—a penance he’d carried in silence all these years.

“All done, Mr. Stewart!”

He started at the voice. He’d forgotten the boy was there. William stood in the doorway, peering curiously at the photo in his hand. “Hey, that’s my grandma,” he said pointing to Ginny.

Matt turned to him, stunned. “What?”

“It’s my grandmother in the picture. She passed a few years ago. We have one just like it at home. How do you have one too?”

Matt’s legs felt like lead as he stumbled out of the shed. The crisp air hit him like a slap, and he reached for a branch of the Crepe Myrtle to steady himself.

“Are you okay, Mr. Stewart?” William asked, concern in his voice. “You look kind of . . . gray.”

Matt inhaled deeply, letting the cold air clear his spinning thoughts. That strange tug he felt every time he saw the boy, that sense of something just out of reach—it all clicked into place.

He looked upward at the sky. A parting in the clouds sent shards of warm sunlight beaming down on him, warming him. “Thanks, Eleanor, my love,” he whispered.
Then he turned to William. “I think . . . I believe you’re my grandson, boy.”

THE END