It’s The Dead by James Joyce. Have you read it?
The reason I like it so: it features a perfect cast of characters, each distinct, amusing, and vital in their own way, but more: in Gabriel, the protagonist, we experience a wonderfully flawed character, a Joyce-that-never-was, undone by his insecurities, arrogance, uneasy humility and obtuseness. For one moment at the end of the tale the curtains are drawn back and the world is revealed to him in all its tragic and raw splendor, and he finds himself unequal to the challenge. Ah! Such humanity, such frailty, and so perfectly drawn out, revealed, and then ended.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
There’s a great film version starring a young Angelica Huston. It’s blocked on YouTube, but try and find a copy – it’s beautifully done.