(Photo by Adam Lukac)

The morning was cold but bright. Small particles of ice crystallized in the air to make a fine, grainy fog. Each tiny crystal caught the sunlight sending sparkles in nearly every direction. Underfoot, the snow crunched like packing foam. Every once in a while, a vole could be spotted darting through disturbed tunnels in the drifts. Paw prints were the only sign of some other animal that had passed by this way. Perhaps it had been hunting the voles.

It hadn’t snowed in over a week so most of the snow that had settled onto the tree branches above had since fallen down or sublimated away, leaving the twiggy boughs empty. Only the most stubborn of icicles still clung to their branches.

The dozen or so people who walked through the woods did not know each other, though they were not surprised when their paths began to converge. Some would nod, others gave a smile, while a few just kept their gaze fixed on the point where they all were heading towards. A few of the older ones recognized one another from years previous but that was as close as any of them got to familiarity. None of them knew why they didn’t get to know one another. It just didn’t feel right, as though doing so would break the magic. And this was magic, or as close to it as any of them could ever imagine.

They were doctors and cashiers, students and professors, old and young. Each year they heard the music calling to them and every year they followed it to this place, to these woods. It called to them, but not in a forceful or compelling manner. Instead, it beckoned to them and there was something irresistibly familiar about the music that none of them could ever quite explain. It reminded them of home, and of peace, but not no tangible memory could say why.

For some, they heard the music first as children and they worried they might get into trouble if they sought it out. For others, they didn’t hear the music until they were much older and it was a struggle to make the walk. Regardless, they all came, year after year. Once they heard the music once, they heard it every year, growing from a faint hint on the wind until it was loud and strong.

Why did only they hear it? Why could none of them ever seem to speak of it to anyone else? Why did no one ever notice their absence when they left to seek it out? It was all part of the magic, they supposed. The nearer they drew to the source the more excited they became. For some, they couldn’t wait and they broke out into a run, hampered by the snow but too eager to simple walk the rest of the way. No one ever tripped or stumbled. No matter the fallen branches or icy ground this part of the forest was not a place where harm was known.

The ground dipped suddenly and a clearing opened up, ringed in trees. The ground here was flat and level. There were no drifts here or fallen branches, no animal tracks to mar the perfect blanket of snow. One by one, the people came, each having started from a different part of the woods and yet each one arrived within only a few minutes of each other.

They stood on the periphery, listening, eyes half closed, until the music swelled up within them all and burst out in song. They could never recall the words afterward but in the moment they were filled and the song they gave voice to bore their joys, their sorrows, their triumphs and their losses of the time since last they sang together. Tears flowed and some voices struggled through the emotion but all were united in this moment together. Though they did not know one another, they knew one another’s souls.

There were songs about loved ones now gone, about the hopes and dreams they’d lost and gained, their fears and triumphs, their joys and pains. Sometimes it seemed they sang for an eternity before the music would end. Other times it felt as though they had only just begun when already the final strains were being sung. It didn’t matter, in the end. When the music stopped and their singing faded, they would look around as though coming out of a trance and then begin the slow walk back to where they’d come from. Those retreating steps were always a little bit slower, a little more thoughtful, then the steps they’d taken on their way here. Some walked feeling lighter while others felt the weight of the music still heavy in their hearts.

No voices broke the stillness of the woods. Only the muffled sounds of a dozen or so pairs of feet shuffling back through the snow. A sniff. A cough. Steam from their hot breath rose upward as it mingled with the fog. The long night was over and the new year had begun. They would live and gather up all of their life for the next year when the music would begin again. Then it would call them out to sing in the new year once more. Forever, the endless cycle to live and grow and die and live.