Every street tells a story. And this one in particular seemed to. A narrow road, curved, the very heart of the village. The winter evening was settling down and was now fading into the inescapable darkness that drapes itself like a funeral shroud over everything at this time of night. Six 0' clock. Smells of chestnuts mingled with the rancid aroma of cigarettes pervaded the street. Yellow smoke from chimneys slid across the night sky. A poet had once commented that April was the cruellest month, but an individual standing on this street would argue that February would better fit this description.

On the right side of this street stood a small pub. A battered oak sign hung from a rusty bracket over the door and it creaked slowly in the wind as if it felt the cold and was shivering.

Stepping now into the comforting embrace of the lights was the girl. She did not bask in the warming glow long, as she hurried down the cold street. No sooner had she stepped into the lights' drowsy luminescence then she slipped away from them and back once more into the gloom. Rosa! The name itself did not pay justice to the girl. A billow of soft, lustrous nut-brown hair fluttered down her shoulders and framed her rosy cheeks, even more flushed tonight in the bracing cold. Her eyes were the colour of hazels, framed by naturally thick black lashes. Above them were sharp eyebrows, which gave her face an alert but not intimidating look and contrasted with her face which was as pale as a white rose. Her attractiveness did not lie in her looks alone; the sparkle of her eyes betrayed her as a pretty, witty, impish monkey with lively and unusual charm. But this side of her was suppressed, at least for the time being and was replaced by a more sombre disposition. She was dressed in a coat that was two sizes too big, wrapped tightly around her and her neck was protected from the icy blasts of wind by a jade green scarf, knitted by her grandmother. Over her left shoulder hung a frayed bag, which banged rhythmically against her knee. Her relatives always remarked,"The very image of her mother," and crossed themselves out of respect for the dead woman. Her mother did not blossom long, dying young soon after the birth of her only child, leaving her daughter motherless.

Rosa moved swiftly down the road, as she did not wish to stay too long in this troublesome chill with gusts of glacial wind biting at the skin- her hands, her face- that was exposed to the elements.

And in the darkness, the girl became aware of the eyes. Across the street from her, someone was watching her. Rosa knew even though she could not see. She paused in her step and looked directly across the street, as she knew that there was someone there. But she could not tell, it was too dark... It began to snow. She felt the snowflakes land on her eyelashes and saw them flutter gently to the ground around her. Not wanting to linger in the icy cold any longer, she began to walk again, telling herself that it was not important discovering who those eyes belonged to and why they were watching her.

Upon reached her house, her numb fingers grasped her keys and navigated the lock successfully. With relief she tumbled into her house and closed the door to the invading flurries. Her father would be glad to see her safely home from her after-school club.

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