Who knows where they came from... I didn't make them. Maybe my father.. but no, he's been inside for a while now. I examine the footprints... Couldn't be my sisters or brothers: the prints were too large. Perhaps it was my mother. But she dosn't have shoes of that type. I search the streets, looking for a face. But the night is quiet, and no one stirs. The snow still falls softly around me. I wonder who it could be. I walk back inside and make myself a cup of tea. As I wait for the kettle to whistle, I continue to ponder the footsteps. What if it was an angel?