“Some hauntings are not caused by the dead, but by the living who refuse to leave.”

The clock on the mantel ticked toward midnight, its slow, deliberate thud echoing through Edward's empty Victorian parlor. Each second sounded heavier than the last, as though the house itself were counting down. He sat in his high-backed chair, a glass of amber scotch resting untouched on the side table, watching snow whip sideways against the tall, narrow windowpanes.

The house stood at the edge of town, all steep gables and ornamental trim—once proud, now weathered. Its paint had faded to the color of old bone. The iron fence out front leaned as though tired of holding its ground. Beyond it, the streetlamp cast a weak amber circle onto drifts already half-buried, the rest of the world swallowed by white and dark.

For forty years, Edward had spent New Year’s Eve in this house.
For forty years, he had waited.

It always began at 11:50 p.m.

First, the temperature dropped—not gradually, but suddenly, as if winter had slipped indoors without knocking. His breath bloomed pale and silvery in the air. Then came the scent: lavender and old lace, unmistakable and intimate, as though someone long gone had brushed past him in the hall.

Finally, she appeared.

The Specter of the Staircase.

She emerged at the top landing, pale and translucent, her silk gown torn and trailing as if caught forever in flight. Her eyes were wide with a terror that never softened, never dimmed. Her mouth moved in a soundless scream as she descended, one desperate step at a time, before vanishing into the cellar door the instant the clock struck midnight.

Edward was not afraid.

He had long since stopped being afraid of her. In truth, he found comfort in the ritual. In all the years since the house had emptied—since voices, laughter, footsteps, and warmth had abandoned it—she had remained. She was the only presence that still acknowledged him. The only proof that he had not entirely slipped into nothing.

As the minute hand clicked toward ten-to-twelve, Edward leaned forward, anticipation stirring in his chest like an old ache.

The air sharpened.
Lavender bloomed.

Right on time, she appeared at the top of the stairs.

But tonight, she seemed different.

More vivid. More real.

Her hands clutched her throat as she descended, yet her movements slowed halfway down. Her mouth closed. The silent scream ceased. Slowly—deliberately—she turned her head.

For the first time in four decades, her gaze met his.

Edward’s breath caught.

There was no terror in her eyes now. Only a deep, unbearable pity.

He lifted his glass, forcing a smile.
“Happy New Year, my dear,” he whispered.

She reached out a shimmering hand toward him. When she spoke, her voice was no longer soundless—it was soft, melodic, and it resonated deep within his bones.

“Oh, you poor soul,” she said gently.
“You still don’t realize which one of us is the memory.”

The clock struck midnight.

The chimes rang out—and the world shifted.

Warmth rushed through the room like breath returning to frozen lungs. The peeling wallpaper smoothed into rich gold. Dust vanished. Light spilled from chandeliers that had not glowed in decades. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air, layered with laughter and voices.

Edward looked down.
His hand was gone.
He looked at the chair.
It was empty.

He turned back just as the woman solidified before him—vibrant, alive, her gown whole and luminous. The front door burst open as guests poured in, cheeks flushed from the cold, raising glasses and calling out greetings. Music swelled. The house pulsed with life.

She stepped through the space where Edward believed he sat, laughing freely now, and crossed the room to throw her arms around a man waiting for her—her husband—his face alight with joy.

And then Edward understood.

All those years, the terror on her face had never been about her own death.

It was because every New Year’s Eve, at the stroke of midnight, she saw him—a grey, flickering shadow of a man sitting alone in her parlor, clinging to a world that had already let him go.

And this year, at last, she had learned the truth.

So had he.

* * * * * * * * * *

It is still dark outside—but not in a way that feels heavy or foreboding.

This is a companionable darkness, one that makes the wee cottage feel warmer, more intimate, as though the night itself has drawn closer for shelter. The single streetlamp at the corner spills its soft amber light across frost-laced branches and new snow, revealing a small, hushed world that seems content simply to exist.

The temperature is meant to fall all day. A proper winter’s New Year’s Eve.

I have never been much for this particular holiday. Not out of cynicism—just neutrality. I’ve always been more inclined to stay home, to let the evening belong to others. Leave the night to the amateurs, as the saying goes. And I often wonder what, exactly, we believe changes at the turning of a calendar page. Is time anything more than our attempt to place markings on eternity?

So I sit here early in the morning, coffee mug close at hand, listening to the Royal Philharmonic’s performance of the Warsaw Concerto. Music born of another dark chapter in history—written in a time when the world itself felt uncertain, fragile, and afraid. I find myself wondering whether our own era echoes that moment. Perhaps it does.

And then my thoughts soften and drift.

I remember something Dr. Wayne Dyer once said:
“Your sense of awe at all of the miracles you see around you allows you to think, see, and live more of these miraculous occurrences.”

It feels especially true this morning.

As a photographer, I often remind myself that it’s not what we look at—it’s what we see. Through a viewfinder, an ordinary streetlamp becomes a beacon. Frost becomes calligraphy. Snow becomes silence made visible. The mundane reveals its hidden life.

If that is possible with a photograph, why not with time itself?

Perhaps what unsettles us about endings and beginnings is not the passing of moments, but our reluctance to let them pass. Perhaps peace comes not from holding on, but from noticing—truly noticing—what is here now, and allowing it to be enough.

And so I begin this day—the quiet close of one year, with another just around the corner—not with resolution or celebration, but with attention. With warmth. With wonder.

Happy New Year.

~Wylddane

"When the way disappears, the heart becomes the map."


On the final evening of the year, Liam left the last lamplight of Lone Pine behind and followed the narrow footpath that curved along Stillwater Gleam. In his coat pocket rested a small brass compass—his grandfather’s—smooth from decades of use, though its needle had long since frozen in place. He carried it anyway, more habit than hope.

Snow began gently, almost kindly. It softened the lake’s edges, blurred the reeds, hushed the world into suggestion. Liam told himself he would turn back soon. Just to the pines. Just a little farther.

Then the wind came.

It rose without warning, lifting the snow and throwing it sideways, stealing depth and distance until sky, lake, and land collapsed into one breathless white. The path vanished beneath his boots. The compass in his pocket felt suddenly heavy, useless.

Liam stopped.

His breath quickened. Cold pressed inward, past wool and bone. He tried to turn back, but there was no back—only sameness in every direction. Lone Pine had not been hidden by the storm; it had been erased.

That was when he saw them.

They stood near the lake’s edge, pale figures rising from the snow—too tall, too still. Faces formed and unformed in the shifting light. Snow ghosts, the old stories whispered. Those who appear when the year is ending and you are not ready.

Fear closed around his chest. He thought of running, though there was nowhere to go. One figure seemed to lean toward him, its arm lifting as if in warning.

“Please,” he said—not to them, but to himself.

The wind eased.
Snow fell straight down.

The nearest ghost softened, its sharp outline dissolving. Snow slid away to reveal bark beneath. A pine tree stood there, ancient and steady. Another ghost unraveled, then another, until only trees remained—bowed under snow, patient witnesses to countless winters.

Liam exhaled, a laugh breaking free, shaky and bright. He understood then: the ghosts were never meant to block his way. They had appeared to stop him—to ask him to listen.

He stepped toward Stillwater Gleam.

The lake lay dark and silent, a mirror without reflection, holding the sky in its depth. In that stillness, the old year loosened its grip. Regret, worry, the need to be certain—all of it fell away like excess snow from branches.

Liam reached into his pocket and held the compass. The needle did not move. It didn’t need to.

From across the lake, faint and distant, the bells of Lone Pine rang—welcoming the new year. When he turned, the path lay before him again, simple and clear.

He followed it home, leaving behind no footprints the storm could not forgive.

* * * * * * * * * *

It is still dark outside.

The wee cottage glows softly—tree lights twinkling, familiar and kind. Coffee warms my hands as Russell Watson’s beautiful tenor fills the room, singing "lost in the snow". The story lingers with me… then gently releases me back into this moment.

I think about that compass in Liam’s pocket—the one that no longer points north, yet is carried anyway. How often do I do the same, relying on old habits or fixed thinking, forgetting that the truest direction doesn’t come from certainty, but from attention.

Buddha was once asked, “What is the most powerful thing in life?”
He smiled and replied: “Your mind. When you fill it with positive thoughts, your life begins to change.”

I know I forget this. Often. Even though it is my intention—every hour of every day.

This morning, though, offers a beginning. Another chance. Like standing at the edge of a quiet lake after a storm, realizing the fear was never the guide—the stillness was.

Once again, today, I start with this beautiful morning—metaphorically lost in the snow, yet finding my way. Not by force. Not by certainty. But by trust.
​
And so I begin this day.

~Wylddane

The bench had been placed there years ago, facing the small lake as if it had chosen the view for itself. Two planks for sitting, one for leaning back, all weathered smooth by seasons of sun, rain, and the long, deliberate patience of winter.

During the snowstorm, it sat empty.

Snow fell steadily, soft as breath, erasing footprints before they could decide where they were going. The lake beyond the bench blurred into a pale sheet of white and gray, its edges dissolving into sky. Pines bowed under the weight of fresh snow, their branches whispering as flakes slipped free and fell.

Once, the bench had known company.

Morning walkers with hands tucked deep into coat pockets. A couple who sat close but spoke little, letting the lake say what neither of them could. An old man who came at dusk, resting his hands on his cane, watching the water as if it might answer a question he no longer remembered asking.

But today, there was only snow.

The bench did not mourn the emptiness. It understood something people often forget: absence is not abandonment. It is simply a pause. A held breath.

Snow gathered along its slats, outlining its shape more clearly than summer ever had. In the hush of the storm, the bench became what it had always been—a place of waiting, not longing. A place prepared to hold whatever came next.

As the snowfall softened, light shifted almost imperceptibly. The lake remained silent, but the silence was no longer lonely. It was complete. The bench waited—not for someone in particular, but for the simple certainty that someone, someday, would sit again, breathe deeply, and feel less alone than they had moments before.

And in that knowing, the bench was content.

* * * * * * * * * *
It snowed all day yesterday. Not fiercely, not dramatically—just steadily, faithfully, as if winter had decided to stay awhile and read alongside me. I napped. I read. The blizzard that was forecast never quite arrived, but the snow did, and somehow that was enough.

This morning it is still dark. The wee cottage glows softly—the Christmas tree lights, a single lamp in the bay window. I refill my coffee mug and take a sip. Saint-Saëns’ Organ Symphony fills the room, the music rising and settling like breath itself.

Outside, the streetlamp reveals a world etched in white—parking-lot-white, hush-white, like a painting still deciding what it wants to become.

I think of that bench by the lake. Empty, yes—but not lonely. Waiting, but not anxious.

A monk was once asked, “What is worry?”
He smiled and said, “It is the thief that steals today’s peace while pretending to prepare you for tomorrow.”

Peace is not found by controlling tomorrow.
It is found by fully living today.

I take another sip of coffee and let the clutter in my mind loosen its grip. I let this moment be enough—the music, the snow, the quiet glow of morning. Like the bench, I don’t need to rush toward what comes next.

And so I begin this day as it is given to me.
​
At peace.

“Nothing is ever truly empty.
It is only waiting.”

~Wylddane