Snapshots in Time

The sound of hooves crunching through snow echoed quietly through the flurries. A landscape of white stretched as far as the eye could see. A chilling wind sung through the skeletons of civilization. Pausing to adjust the furs covering it's back from the harsh environment, the pony took in the world and all its' destroyed beauty. What had once been bustling streets and warm store fronts stared back, glaringly empty and devoid of color. The sounds of past lives silenced by a shrill wail of wind and the warmth and color taken by a cold powder.

The figure continued on it's way. The coat draped across it's back dulled the teeth of the chill, but without shelter the fast approaching night would surely add another powder covered mound to the glaring emptiness of the world. Rubbing at the goggles underneath it's hood, the pony selected a small shop on the northern side of the street.

The shop itself was unassuming. It's outer walls had long since last their color; the paint as gone as it's proprietors and customers. The glass of it's windows had yet to be broken. The pony stopped it's solemn march through the snow covered city, setting it's saddle bag upon the ground and drawing out a small piece of metal. Positioning the sturdy rod on the keyhole, the pony pushed it's weight on the door; the rod focusing it onto the lock. The weather had eaten and torn at the door. It warped the wood and made the workings brittle. The lock, and most of the handle, shattered under it's force. Taking a last glance around, the pony stole inside. Night was falling quickly, a dark cool blanket covering the landscape of ice and buildings.

The inside -like the outside- was dilapidated. Without ponies to maintain it, the small coffee shop(judging from the counter, tables, and chains strewn about) was just as colorless as the outside world. The only true differences was the volume of the wind and the biting chill. The wanderer gathered a few chairs, dragging them behind the counter. Setting one aside, it quickly set to work making tender out of the once-upon-a-time symbols of civilized ponies. Pulling flint from the saddle-bag, the cold pony quickly set the stone to the metal of the chair frames; lighting the small pile of wood near by.

The fire quickly warmed the insides of the old building, giving it as close to a home-like glow and warmth as can be find in these trying times. The wanderer sat in the last chair near the fire, taking weight off it's hooves for a welcome respite. Reaching inside the coat, pony withdrew a single item: a photo. Gazing lovingly at the photo, the pony gave a small sigh. Somewhere out there in the world, a loved one was waiting. Whether that loved one was alive or not was of little consequence; they were still waiting. In the silence of the world, with only the wind calling and the quiet coughs of a fire for company, one can truly understand the word "alone."
The wanderer let his weary eyes slide closed, lead weights dragging them into a warm murk. Here, here was color. Here was warmth.