Many years ago, before the invention of cellphones, our story begins. It was a very cold and brutal winter. Grey clouds blocked out the sun, and lonely wind howled through the naked arms of outstretched trees. Ever so often, a tree would scrape its fingers down the window pane with a bone-like rattle. A man named Tony was sitting with his father. Machines beeped gently as his Father lay on the hospital bed. A weary finger beckoned Tony closer.

"I'm cold." his father said.
"I'll get you a blanket." said Tony, and went off to fetch one from the closet. He came back and tucked his father in gently, a thick wool blanket.

"Is that any better?" Tony asked.

"I'm so cold." his father said again. He laid back in the pillows and groaned.

As the night went on, his father grew weaker and weaker. Tony stayed by his side, holding his hand, whispering to him, making sure that his every need was met. In the morning however, as humans are want to do, Tony's father died.

As they were Jewish, the custom was for the body to be buried as soon as possible. Arrangements were made, family who were able to attend were notified. The funeral was a simple affair, and the graveside service was brief. There were many tears, but none could stay too long. The cold was too bitter to allow them to stay.

Tony took a final look at the casket of his father. You grow up with a man, and see him every day for years, and it comes to this. The casket looked so foreign. It was a square box, set on the gurney, ready to be lowered. Wind moaned through the trees, and grey clouds rolled across the horizon. It looked like it was going to snow.

"Love you Dad." Tony said. As a last gesture, he put the wool blanket from before on the casket top, then turned and walked away.

He lay in bed that night, alone with his thoughts. The skeletal fingers of trees tapped against the window, fogged over as snow blanketed the ground. He knew. It would be a long and sorrowful night of no sleep.

The next morning, as Tony sat up, he listened. Nothing. No taps on the window. No beeping as machines monitored vitals. No orderlies interrupting the uncomfortable sleep of a man hunched in an armchair, watching over his father. The blanket of snow on the ground seemed to be a good sign. Things had come to rest. His father was at rest. He could rest. The world would go on.

As he shuffled into the kitchen, the phone rang.

Tony picked it up. "Hello?"

There was a great silence over the phone. It sounded deep, as if there were wind howling into the receiver.

"Hello?"

"I'm so cold." It sounded just like his father. Weak. Raspy.

Tony dropped the phone. After composing himself, he picked the phone up.

"Who is this?" He replied sharply.

Another long silence.

"I'm so cold Tony."

"I said who is-" The line had gone dead. Just the buzz of a disconnected line.

Tony made his coffee, and went on to begin his day. "That was just stress. I am hearing things. I have been under a lot of stress. I'm fine. I just need some more sleep."

That night as Tony lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the phone rang again.

"Hello?"

Another long silence, interrupted by the howling of the wind, or someone blowing into the receiver.

"This isn't funny!" he said. "Who is this? You think it's funny, tormenting someone like this?"

"I'm so cold Tony. Tell them to put me in the ground. I'm so cold."

"Stop it!" he shouted. "You're not funny, this is sick! Call again, and I'll get the police!" He slammed the phone down onto the base.

That night, the snow continued. It was an actual snowstorm. As it piled up, Tony let his mind drift until blissful oblivion guided him into a dreamless sleep.

Two whole days he got, without interruption. Two days of normal, uninterrupted, life.

That night, as the snowstorm subsided, the phone rang again.

"What?" Tony said

A long silence.

"You aren't my Dad. My Dad is dead! I told you, I'm calling the police!"

"Tony. I'm so cold. Please. Tell them-"

Tony hung up. "I've had enough of this!" He grabbed his keys and coat. "Snow be damned, I'll prove it."

Tony drove across town, skidding on ice patches, almost drifting into snow banks more than once. He parked in the graveyard, practically leaping out of his car, and walked stubbornly towards his Father's grave. The only sounds he could hear were the crunch of snow under his foot and the wind in the trees.

As he approached where his father was buried, he stopped mid-step. A sharp inhale.

Over the pit of his Father's grave, still sat the casket on it's riser, covered in white. The graveyard equipment for lowering and digging sat nearby, marooned by the weather.

A few feet away, corner peeking out of a white mound of snow, was the blanket.