The cold had come earlier than expected, curling through the halls with quiet insistence. I found comfort on mornings like this, stitched in silence, the world paused in frost. The radio murmured in the corner, adding warmth to an otherwise stark room.
Saw her at the balcony, tending to the flowers that barely made it through winter. Each bloom a minor revolution against the chill, against the routine. She told me stories of Berlin in her gentle whisper, threading past with present, making sense of chaos.
Fugitive shadows playing tag on the summer lawn. I chased them, barefoot, the warmth of earth contrasting the cool shiver of air. Sometimes it felt like chasing whispers, echoes of voices long slipped away on gentle breezes.
The storm came uninvited, thrumming against the roof like a drummer demanding attention. I wrote under its rage, fingers dancing on keys, creating metaphors veiled in intermittent light. Each paragraph a refuge, each sentence a safe passage.
The longest night wrapped around us like a familiar blanket. I glanced at the flickers of a solitary candle, its dance echoing the heartbeat of winter. In moments like this, the darkness isn't feared but embraced as collective solace, a shared pause until dawn.