“Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind…”

Off-key singing filtered through the white wall into an almost-empty office. A young executive sat alone in the dark, leaning against the cold wall and looking out the too-large window at the lights of cars and windows far below.

Sleek stilettos sat beside her, and her bare toes scrunched the carpet. What was the point of New Year’s parties? Nothing changed. People didn’t suddenly become fit or kind or dedicated. All New Year's meant was a sales rush for the fitness industry.

On the other side of the wall, the song drew to an end. Champagne corks popped, and people cheered. They did it too soon; it’s not midnight yet. Shouting stopped, as people kissed to start the new year. Too soon.

The woman crossed the room to open the window. New York rushed in—shouting, honking, smog, 11 degree air, and an errant flurry of snow. Even thirty floors up, there was no escaping the noise.

Goosebumps formed on her bare arms, but she kept the window open. Cold was honest. Cold didn’t steal your heart, then turn out to be married to someone else. Cold didn’t laugh behind your back with its friends because it had known the whole time. Cold didn’t show up at your office and scream at you when you had no idea that he’d lied. Cold didn’t record the event and show it to all your coworkers.

She leaned into the winter air. Far below, cars looked like fireflies. The landing would hurt, but wouldn’t it be nice to fly? It wouldn’t take much. Just lean out into the snow, and then—

“Aerin? What are you doing?” Her secretary, Veronica, stood in the door, champagne in each hand. The redness of the younger woman’s cheeks showed it was not her first glass.

“Just…waiting to watch the fireworks. I needed some air.”

In a few steps, Veronica stood beside Aerin. She leaned over the sill and breathed deep. “Perfect view.”

She’ll leave in a minute, Aerin thought, then—Veronica turned, but only to hand Aerin one of the champagne glasses.

The two women stood in the freezing night side by side, sipping champagne and saying nothing. Through the wall, the countdown began on TV, augmented by the voices in the other room. “Ten, nine…”

When the count reached one, light as bright as day blossomed and burned in the night sky. Ash fell with snow, and the iron scent of gunpowder laced the cold. In the silence after the artificial thunder, something fluttered. It was the sound of untrodden snow, the smell of new paper, the sight of a never-before-seen smile. A fresh start, imagined, but nonetheless real.

“Happy New Year,” said Veronica.