Drifting in silence on a crisp winter’s eve, Timbre settled upon the rooftop of Mr. Cobble’s Shoe Emporium. Timbre stretched his delicate limbs across the weathered shingle as he absorbed the rooftop’s tale.
Mr. Cobble, a kind-faced man with a glorious peppered mustache, hummed as he worked beneath the warm glow of the hanging lamp at the back of the store. He fitted the last buckle to his granddaughter’s shoe and held it up for inspection. The wee Ginny was to star in a school play and insisted she needed the shiniest, prettiest shoes for her performance. Mr. Cobble’s lips twitched into a smile.
The noble rooftop had watched over Mr. Cobble’s thoughtful lineage for three generations. And though Timbre’s life was short, he felt comforted knowing this cobbler’s shop was his final resting place. His feathery body merged with the shingle as he took a final, peaceful breath.
Raggle’s new eyes were greeted by a flurry of confusion. His frail body was whipped and battered as the storm raged on. He sought refuge on a tin rooftop in a forested cove.
Beneath the roof sat an old woman, knitting an elaborate sock no bigger than her thumb. Once finished, she placed the sock on a pile of similar forgotten socks. And blew out the candle next to a palm-sized urn.
Though it has been said time and time again that no two snowflakes are alike, the same can be argued for the rooftops that they fall upon.