Fyodor Dostoyevsky | The Darker the Night, the Brighter the Light

He looked up at the white sky. The flakes did come into view until they came through the holes in the roof. A breeze blew through the building. Men around him huddled close together. He didn’t smell the stink anymore. It was all the same smell. 

Among the flakes now contrasting with the dark of the roof, he centered on one that moved slowly down to him. It went to and fro, back and forth, until it seemed to hover, suspended and clean, uncorrupted by the world and the filth and the pain that it was falling into.

Then it fell. And when it touched his arm he watched it absorb the dirt and blood and suddenly it looked like rot. He turned back to the sky and repented. His voice was the only one he could hear.

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