Notes from a Snow CountryIn the beginning, there was silence. At dusk, the sky turned into a faded, ashen-grey velvet cloth. The wind swirled under the eaves, emitting a hollow murmur. I leaned against the window, the glass covered in a thin layer of frost flowers, like secret totems drawn by icy fingertips. The air had a taut quality, as if the whole world was holding its breath and waiting. Then, the first snowflake fell—so light, so hesitant, like a feather accidentally dropped from the edge of the clouds.
The real snow arrived after nightfall. No longer individual flakes, but flocks, clusters, masses, pouring down from an unknowable height. In the orange glow of the streetlights, the snow didn't fall vertically but spun and swirled, dancing a grand and silent waltz. They were no longer individuals but a flowing, luminous river.
Created on 2025.12.16
