I paid for an elderly woman’s groceries, and she whispered: “When your husband leaves tonight, do not touch the snow.” My husband ordered me to shovel the drive, but I stayed inside. The next morning, I stepped onto the porch and froze. Under the pristine white layer, I saw something that proved my husband’s “night run” was a lie. If I had touched that snow, I would have been clearing my own burial site.

I had already picked up my bags, intending to leave, when I felt an unexpectedly strong grip on the sleeve of my old coat. The old woman stood beside me, clutching the fabric with her wiry fingers with such force that I could not immediately pull away.

“Listen to me carefully, daughter,” she whispered, leaning in very close. I could smell mothballs, dried herbs, and something else—elusive and ancient, like ozone before a storm. “When your husband leaves for the night, do not touch the snow in the yard. Do you hear me? No matter what he tells you, do not shovel until morning. Let the white lie untouched.”

“What?” I blinked in confusion, trying to understand the meaning of these strange words. “What snow?”

“Do not touch the snow until morning,” the old woman repeated slowly, distinctly, as if hammering every word into my consciousness. Her fingers gripped my sleeve even tighter, almost to the point of pain. “Promise me. This is very important. Your life depends on it. Believe an old woman.”

“Yes. Okay. Okay,” I agreed mechanically, freeing my arm and involuntarily stepping back. My heart beat anxiously. I felt uneasy from that intense, almost hypnotic gaze. “I will not shovel. I promise.”

The old woman finally let me go, nodded slowly as if satisfied, and quickly—surprisingly agile for her age—walked out of the store, dissolving into the snowy whirl beyond the glass doors.

I watched her go, then shaken my head. Foolishness, I thought. Old folk superstition. But the chill on my arm where she had touched me lingered long after I left the store.