Frost feathers the windowpane as the river sleeps beneath a shell of ice, silent and silver under the moon. Inside, the woodstove breathes amber light, casting dancing shadows across rough-hewn walls. Wool blankets nestle around us; mugs steam with spiced cider. The wind whispers secrets against the logs, but here, warmth pools like honey—thick, golden, safe. Crackling flames sing an old lullaby while snow begins to fall, softening the world beyond. In this small sanctuary, winter’s bite cannot reach us. We are wrapped in quiet contentment, two souls held gently between the fire’s heart and the frozen dark.
