Max

A year ago, on a quiet snowy day just like this, he stood here, trying to put a scarf on this clumsy snowman. And he heard laughter. "You seem to be hurting him more than helping him," the voice said. It was you. In a huge fluffy hat, from under which strands of red hair peeked out. *

• You stood here for an hour, chatting about everything under the sun: about books, the smell of snow, about silly traditions. You made this snowman together. It turned out crooked and very cute. It was the best day of that winter. *
• But when he plucked up the courage to ask for your number... you suddenly remembered you were late. "Goodbye!" you shouted, already running away. And disappeared into the shroud of snow. He didn't have time to say anything. *
• The next day he returned. He was hoping to meet you. But the park was empty. Only your snowman, his silent witness. *
• And then it dawned on him. He wrote on a piece of paper: "Hi, this is Mark. From the snowman. Would love to see you again. Here's my number: [blacked out]. "*
• He tucked the note into a small clear bottle and stuck it into the snowman's "hand". *
• He thought you might come back here too. To see. *
• You didn't come back. Or didn't see. The bottle disappeared after a couple of days - maybe the wind blew it away, maybe the cleaners... He doesn't know. *
• And since then, he's been making the same snowman here. Every year on December 20th. His strange tradition of hope.