Every first snowfall of the year, we ran.

It wasn't a festival. We were running to survive.

The date was never a mystery.

They told us weeks in advance.

It was printed on billboards, blasted on the news,

scrawled across the bottom of television screens in red lettering.

The first snowfall will arrive on November 12th.

Prepare.

People marked it on their calendars.

We didn't question it anymore.

The day before the snowfall, the entire town shut down.

Schools closed early, businesses locked their doors.

No deliveries, no flights, no traffic in or out.

It was as if we were preparing for a storm.

But the weather wasn't the problem.

It was what came with it.

Everyone had their own preparations.

Some packed light bags, just enough to keep moving.

Others mapped out faster routes, cutting through fields and back roads to avoid getting stuck.

People checked their shoes, making sure their laces were tight, their souls weren't worn down.

There was no ceremony, no speeches, no sirens, just an unspoken understanding.

We waited, and then, when the first snowflake fell, we ran.

...