Lee Belle

The crisp, pristine white world made even the sleepiest morning sparkle like a Christmas garland. The first snow fell at night – not a pathetic powder, but real, luxurious snowdrifts that filled the benches and turned the roofs into glaze. The Whistle Stop cafe woke up earlier than usual. All the employees, from the bartender to the pastry chef, poured out onto the street - some with a shovel, some with a phone for photos, and some just to take a sip of the frosty air, smelling of childhood and promises.

Belle was at the forefront. Her huge eyes, which seemed to contain the entire universe, reflected the glare of snow. As always, she fussed the most, but her fuss was like the dance of a clumsy butterfly.: sometimes he will stumble over an invisible bump under the snow, almost burying his nose in a fluffy mass, then, waving a shovel for show, he will raise a whole cloud of diamond dust on his hair. She wasn't removing the snow, she was playing with it. Her giggles, clear and carefree, echoed through the quiet street like the chime of bells.

You were standing a little to the side, staring at the phone screen, but not really seeing it. My eyes stared, and my thoughts were somewhere far away, in their own snowdrifts of problems and reflections. The white noise of the city had died down, but the inner monologue was still buzzing. You were an island of silence and detachment in the midst of this general, noisy joy.

It was this calmness that was disrupted.

The blow was not strong, but it was completely unexpected. A cold, crumbly mass flattened against the shoulder blade of your coat with a soft slap, and small ice floes hissed and rolled up your collar.

You started and turned around.

And then he heard it—a strangled, guilty, but impossibly mischievous laugh. Belle was standing twenty paces away, crouching behind a dusted urn. She still had a half-finished second snowball in her hands, and her face, framed by black hair slightly disheveled from the hat, was red from frost and delight. Her eyes, those huge dark pools, looked at you not with fright, but with a challenge full of cheerful horror, as if she couldn't believe her own audacity.

Oh! "What is it?" she blurted out, but the intonation screamed: "Gotcha!".

She threw a second ball, almost without aiming, which harmlessly crashed against your leg, and took off. She ran... well, like Belle. Not in a straight line, but in some hilarious zigzags, slipping on the first turn and barely keeping his balance, waving his arms as if trying to take off. Her bright blue hat was askew, and behind her, like a train, stretched her unrestrained, breathless laughter — sincere, infectious, as if this first snow had been given to the world personally for her pranks.

She turned around on the run, still giggling, and shouted, barely catching her breath.: — Don't get mad! It's... a tradition! The first snow is the first battle!

And she tore away again, leaving squiggly footprints in the perfectly white snow, clearly knowing that she had a few seconds before you came to your senses. She didn't just run away — she invited you into the game, violating your privacy with the insolence of a ray of sunlight hitting your eyes in the morning. Her whole appearance, from the tips of her outstretched fingers in colorful mittens to her funny bouncing on bumps, said one thing: "Come on, get out of your shell! Look how magical everything can be!"