The Snowfall Algorithm

*

The radiator ticks, the laptop fan whirrs.
December air leaks through the window.
Mara sits at her work-station, the glow of the monitor bleaching her face.
The moderation queue refreshes.
She considers the next three thumbnails: knife, cartoon elf, blurred flesh.
Her finger taps remove.
By the side of the keyboard, her peppermint latte has gone cold, skin forming on its surface.
It tastes sour and reminds her of the smell of hospitals.
White sheets / empty cradle.
She pushes her mug aside, presses remove again.
There is a faint ache, a phantom weight in her abdomen.
Her hand drifts to her tightening stomach, then back to the keyboard.
She scrolls faster and presses harder on the keys, until her fingers ache.
She doesn’t look down.
Not tonight, she tells herself.

**

Jonas prepares to narrate the unboxing of a ‘Limited Edition Nostalgia Pack’.
He adjusts the settings on his webcam, checks the red dot is live.
His audience count stands at 0.
With the edge of his door key, he slices sellotape and tears open a cardboard box.
He smells mildew; dust clings to his fingertips.
Inside, a VHS tape lies swaddled in bubble wrap, its label scrawled XMAS 1999.
He holds it up and smiles into the camera lens.
Silence, apart from the hum of a ring light.
He rubs his chest and feels the rapid, hollow thump of his heart.
He remembers her hand turning away.
He keeps smiling and says: look at this.
The comments remain blank.
The ring light burns circles into his eyes.
Tonight, he promises himself.

***

Outside, sirens clamour as an alternative to sleigh bells and streetlights outshine the stars.
Mara’s window fogs.
She wipes it with her sleeve, leaving streaks of condensation across the glass.
She remembers the blur on the ultrasound.
The taste of peppermint turns metallic in her mouth.
Her stomach lurches.
A notification arrives: Holiday Bonus Delayed.
She closes the popup window and continues to press remove.
Her screen flickers: the next image is of a child’s handwriting on a scrap of notepaper.
Her throat closes as she leans nearer to read it.

****

Jonas presses play, but the tape jams in the machine and its plastic reels grind.
He slaps the antique VHS player, causing dust to rise.
The smell of scorching circuitry fills the room.
He remembers the pervasive, antiseptic odour of the waiting room; the uncomfortable plastic chair.
He places the monitor closer to the lens.
Static falls as thick as snow.
His teeth are set on edge by the mechanical whine, but he doesn’t stop recording.

*****

At midnight, Mara’s screen inverts.
Blue light floods the room.
Her skin prickles with the illusion of cold.
The note reads: Dear Santa, please fix Dad.
She hunches over her keyboard, shoulders tense and chest filled with a sudden sharpness as she thinks of presence.
She takes a screenshot of the glitching image.
Her breath is a puff of mist as she whispers something not to be heard.

******

Midnight ushers in another day.
The drone of the malfunctioning VHS player fills the room.
Just as it ends, Jonas glimpses brief footage that looks like a department store Santa removing his beard.
His eyes sting.
He feels weight in his hands, heavier than a cardboard box: the weight of absence.
He removes the ejected cassette tape from the machine.
His breath smells like warm plastic.
He whispers something only she would understand.

*******

By morning, the moderation queue is full again.
The snowfall screensaver resumes its random drift of flakes.
Mara’s eyes sting, as if from the flickering light.
She deletes screenshots for a while, then closes the laptop.
Her hand rests on her stomach.
She exhales and hums a half remembered lullaby.

********

In the morning, Jonas erases the stream and hides the video cassette under his bed.
His eyes still hold the after-image of the ring light.
He closes the window blinds.
His hand rests on his chest.
He exhales and feels the mechanical rise and fall of his breath.

*********

After work, Mara braves the supermarket aisles: plastic wreaths and cinnamon air freshener.
She notices children playing with the toy figures in a Nativity display.
The crib is empty.
She places her basket on the floor of the shop and leaves without buying anything.

**********

It is afternoon, but already dark and the pavement is wet.
Jonas pauses at the street corner where a billboard display loops: Buy Joy™, Stream Cheer™, Upgrade Family™.
Tourists lift their phones skyward.
Snow falls in AR simulation on their screens.
He watches pixels drift and shimmer.
He remembers her breath fogging glass.
He returns to what once was a home.

***********

Another evening and the apartment remains quiet, but for the hum of the fridge.
Mara lies on the bed, her hand on her stomach.
She closes her eyes and whispers: not forgotten.

************

It is evening and the apartment remains in darkness.
Jonas lies on the floor, silence humming like a VHS player on standby.
He rests his hand on his chest and closes his eyes.
Forgotten, he tries to convince himself.