In response to Rochelle Wisoff’s Friday Fictioneers
Prompt: Write a fiction in 100 words.

I stood at the top of the stairwell, hemmed in by brick, as if the world had narrowed to one cold passage.
The steps were slick with ice, each one a reminder that living is mostly careful descent. Halfway down, I noticed it – an evergreen ornament, bent under snow, lights blinking stubbornly. It looked foolish and brave. I brushed the needles clean, straightened the droop, and felt my fingers burn.
A stranger passed, then a child, who pointed and smiled as if it were a miracle. The street below remained loud and indifferent. Yet, something in me softened, meaning is made, not found.
© Rohini 2009–2025.
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