Pebble wobbles as the wind rakes across the yard, his twig arm scraping against the bare branches of the old maple. He tilts his carrot nose toward the distant row of townhouses, where warm light bleeds through curtains — but no footsteps crunch on the walk.
Three days he has sat in the white silence, button by button, waiting for someone to notice he is here. Pebble shakes his twig fingers until they make a dry clack-clack-clack against his button coat, then tips his tiny paper hat off and lets it tumble onto the snow.
A raccoon pads past the fence, snuffling, and Pebble steadies himself, tucking the hat back on while snowflakes land on his shoulders, one by one. The yard stays white and still. Then the gate GROANS — a sharp, rusty shriek — and a small shadow in a red coat crouches at the fence.
Pebble stretches both twig arms up, jiggling them fast, and the child's eyes go wide. Then she grabs the handle, turns it, and yanks the gate shut with another SCREECH that sends Pebble's carrot nose wobbling crooked. His arms drop flat.
The next morning, the child in the red coat kneels at the edge of the yard and presses her thumb flat against the frozen tip of Pebble's carrot nose. "Hi," she whispers, and her smile is huge and crooked, showing one missing tooth.
Pebble wobbles so hard his button coat bursts open and three shiny buttons skitter across the snow like tiny silver coins. The child scoops up the scattered buttons, tucks them into her pocket, and says, "I'll come back tomorrow, Snowman."
Her small boots crunch a fresh path to the gate, which screeches open on its rusty hinge. Pebble settles back into the snow, his empty coat hanging open, his twig arms still raised above the quiet yard.
He waits again, but this time the silence feels different. It is not empty anymore; it is full of promise. The sun climbs higher, casting long shadows across the white grass, and Pebble stands tall, ready for tomorrow.
