Short story I wrote in my writing class based off the theme of a cold morning.

It’s either early morning or late night. Too dark to see the hands of my watch but not dark enough to cease the looming shadows. Either way, this blanket is too thin to shield the cold. Hotels are the stingiest establishments you’ll ever find. It’s a universal fact. That and they’re the most boring places to be at a time so early or late you can’t even tell if its light or dark, whether you’re writing on the lines or not or even what language you’re using.

This must be what they call “jet lag”. In my mind, its six am, my usual waking time. The house is silent and I can’t make out the time staring across at me. So I’ll reach down to my bedside, where there’s a pile of notebooks and pens. My fingers will skim over a word or two before finally finding my phone, illuminating the time.

But that’s not here.

Here there’s three people cramped into one room. Half a metre fits between each single bed and mine by the window, overlooking the harbour and TV. There’s no point in TV. None of us speak this language. That’s not what’s most frightening. What worries me the most is when my fingers skim the floor. There’s rough carpet. Here, there are no words to find.

This place has a bed-side table each. A clear, clean table with a draw and a Bible. A Bible that none of us, if we wanted to (which we don’t), can read. This table isn’t stained with ink and paint. It doesn’t support ribbons, sketches, pins and a battered lamp. It doesn’t hold phrasebooks, lyrics and translations. It isn’t marked with the kanji for light. Hikari. 光.

The blinds are so thick that you’d never imagine there’s something so beautiful on the other side. Despite the icy weather, the water glistens magically. The growth of shrubs and trees are a green I thought only existed for coloured pencils. Across the fjord lies a mountain, so steep it seems vertical. This mountain is just as green as the plants outside our window.

But on a cold morning, when you can’t see the time, in a country so far from home, in a town so small not even the locals know its name all you can do is wait. Wait and long for the day your fingers will find words once again.

Hope you liked it.

Comments appreciated, constructive criticism adored.