Antique Rugs in Family Drama

   “And what are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”
    Sally dropped her boot in surprise, and it made a hollow tap on the hardwood floor, flopped over onto the old rug. A soft, dry chuckle sang in her ears.
    “Couldn’t sleep,” She said shortly, but not unkindly.
He didn’t respond. Didn’t have to. He just stood behind the new couch and watched quietly as she finished bundling up. She slipped her white gloves over her clammy hands and sat back, exhaling.
“You sound tired.” His voice was not pitying, but tired in itself. She nodded, but didn’t turn around. Instead, she pulled a white knitted hat over her wildfire hair, gently smothering it.
She stood up to face him, and gave him a dampened smile. He didn’t smile back.  
“I’ll just be outside for a few minuets. Not past the gates,” She said, like she was fifteen again.
He tilted his head to the side and gestured to himself, and when she gave him a quick nod of assent, he reached for his own boots and jacket, fallen amongst the others scattered across the worn antique rug.  
She didn’t wait for him. The door clicked shut behind her, and she made her way through the frigid air to the bench under the tree. The world around her was black, but for the circle of white where her cell phone lit the way.
Her bench was entirely unremarkable: not an ancient thing of beauty, nor decrepit enough to be interesting, but she’d been sitting in it for years. She’d had, if not her first, then many subsequent kisses while perched there. She’d sniffled and pretended not to cry there, had late night phone conversations, bathed in the sun.
It was as familiar to her as her childhood room, and it still stood while the rest of the house had been remodeled when she moved out.
She didn’t sit, but instead slowly brushed the snow from the arm rest, the wet seeping through her cotton gloves and numbing her fingers. She stared at the flakes she held on her fingertips, her eyes wavering in and out of focus. She brought the white to her lips just as the crunch of boots arrived.
She watched him watch her eat the fresh snow, and she smiled slightly, holding out another taste for him. He didn’t take it. She lowered her hand and looked at him for the first time since their mother’s funeral.
His hair stood out stark against the white without a cap to cover it, and his face glowed pale like a little boy. She suddenly felt like crying, felt the build behind her eyes and in her nose.
He inhaled to speak, wearing the expression he always wore when he was about to say something that would hurt.  
“Hey, Sally? I-”
She shushed him quietly, then brushed off the rest of the snow on the seat with her sleeve. She gestured for him to take a seat. He did.
They sat together in the silence, their cloudy breaths mingling, spreading through the clear air like frosty mist. The white speckled their clothes like magic dust, and Sally pulled off her cap so her hair could be sprinkled, too, like dewdrops on a rose.
She said, “Let’s never talk about it,” and he didn’t argue.
Simultaneously, they lifted their faces to avoid each others’, and let the snowflakes perch on their lashes.