Snow Cold

Intro - Chapter 0

Of course it was cold.

It was always cold in Davos.

The usual layer of goddamn snow covered everything with its obnoxious, boring whiteness.

His heater had stopped working; obviously, so he was reduced to wearing three sweaters inside, close by his oven, sitting on the floor while it cooked some homemade lasagne, fingers tapping idly on his unplugged electric guitar's strings.

He'd make a quick buck from anything he could find. He gave guitar lessons to a handful of people who were not put off by his appearance, walked some old folks' dogs, ran errands here and there, shovelled snow out of people's alleys, and even went over to an old lady's place to have tea with her to keep himself active more than anything else.

That lady, Mrs Bischel, was a widow since 2001, and not at all what Sven thought what an 89-year-old widow would be like. She smiled a lot, laughed a lot, made jokes he could understand, asked questions about the meaning of his tattoos, and even went as far as to ask him to play one of the songs he'd wrote after he'd gone to her place every day for more than three months.

So of course, he'd gone over to her place with his amp and played her his slowest song, and she'd listened with a distant look in her eyes. After that, he couldn't help but think of her as the grandmother he'd never had (his mother's mom had died from tuberculosis, and he'd never met his father nor his part of the family), and he started to feel bad for charging her to keep her company. After all, she was a lonely old lady and the meetings were as entertaining for him as they were for her.

So he started declining the money, and despite that, she kept insisting for at least two weeks, saying that he needed money more than she did. They never had had any children with her husband, and she had admitted it was a shame, because she realised by having him around what she had missed on.

He'd felt touched by her words, and swore that he'd be there for as long as she wanted him to be.

Unfortunately, she'd had a stroke or something along those lines, and ever since she was in a coma, bedridden at the hospital.

As a matter of fact, he was just waiting for his lunch to finish cooking before heading over to the hospital. He visited regularly, because he refused to believe that she wouldn't wake up. He knew she was strong, she never showed any signs of weakness before. She was always well dressed, her hair neatly pulled up in a bun, her makeup as flawless as a young lady's.

He never had a grandma growing up, and he refused to lose the only person who had behaved like one to him.

He sighed, his forehead resting against the edge of his instrument. Luck was most definitely not on his side these days, or should he say these years. It seemed as though destiny had chosen to chew him off ever since he'd moved to Davos a year and a half ago.

He threw a glazed-over look at his phone, knowing he'd have to go through hundreds of e-mails concerning the appealing position of drummer in his band. Oh how he dreaded that moment.

He was yanked out of his reverie by the sudden ring of the device, indicating that his creation should be done cooking. He put his guitar aside and, grabbing some rags, opened the oven and got the dish out, managing not to get burnt. He then placed some tinfoil on it so that it would still be somewhat warm when he came back from the hospital.

He reluctantly grabbed his phone, stopping the alarm, and shoved some money in his pocket just in case before exiting his place, locking the door behind. The residence's corridor was pretty dark: the only light provided during the day was the sunlight that filtered through the main door's glass panel, protected by rusty iron bars. He was lucky to own the second loft, though, because those who lived at the end of the corridor had to light up their doors to be able to put their keys in the keyhole.