Theme story - Footprints

I awaken early, as I usually do. The world is still dark, but lightening on the horizon. I move down the stairs and open the door to check for the paper. Looking down I see that the paper had been delivered – there was a clear imprint of the paper in the snow nearby – but, it is no longer there. All there is is the pseudo-rectangular impression next to a set of footsteps. I can't remember the last time I'd been able to enjoy the paper in peace. Grumbling to myself, I pull on my boots. I am going to find the culprit this time, and God help him if I catch up.

It's cold out here. Where am I? I look around, but all I see is the snow on either side of me. It's coming down hard now – I think it's been doing that for a while, but I can't be certain. I look back down at the snow. Footprints. With no other options, I continue to follow the tracks. I don't appear to have dressed very warmly – wherever I came from, it couldn't have been far. Pulling my cloak tighter around me, I move off into the snow.

So cold. I realize my hands are shaking, and that I can't really control them. I look around me, but see nothing but snow. Have I been here before? I don't remember going outside. I look at the ground around me, looking for some clue to my existence. I spy a set of footprints moving off into the snow. My hands are shaking so severely – I'm not sure I can last much longer. I follow the footprints through the snow.

There's a building not too far ahead. I can't make out the details, but the dark patch is roughly rectangular through the falling snow ahead of me. I surmise it's someone's house. They don't appear to be home, though, as I can't see any lights as I approach. I step up onto a porch, seeing footprints in the drifts below me. My hands are trembling, nearly frozen, as I reach for the doorknob and try the door. It's open, the door swinging soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. I step through the door and shut it behind me, shaking some of the snow off my boots. I spy a newspaper on a nearby table. I pick it up and look at it – it's still in its plastic bag, likely untouched. I shrug and set it back. I'll read it in the morning. I'm sure whoever owns this house won't mind if I catch a quick nap.

I awaken early, as I usually do.