We rode out at dawn, the sky low and heavy with snow. The river was frozen solid, the only road left open in winter. Fifteen kilometers wasn’t far, but distance meant little in a storm like this. The wind cut against us, filling our tracks as fast as we made them.
There were eight of us, hunched over the handlebars, legs grinding against the drifts. The world had turned to milk, the river and sky bleeding into each other. There were only a few markers on the path and the feeling of the ice beneath the tires and the sound of our breathing.
The village sat on the far bank, abandoned but not forgotten. The church was still standing, its bones held together by the faith of a few. Eighteenth century, they said. People sent money to restore it, little by little.
We pushed forward. The snow thickened. The wind howled. Somewhere ahead, the church waited, its spire lost in the white.
by AdAggravating7359