The world seems to soften, the air cleaner, and a strange sense of anticipation fills me, as if something good is about to happen.

Many people say winter is the cold season.
For me, it's the opposite: the warmest time of year.

There's a story from my childhood that explains why.

When I was about seven years old, I ran out into the yard one morning—the snow had fallen only overnight, and it lay like an even, untouched blanket. I fell into a snowdrift, closed my eyes, and felt the snowflakes softly touch my eyelashes and lips. Everything around was silent, as if the world was holding its breath.

And at that moment, a boy from the neighboring house approached—my little hero of that time. He simply lay down next to me, without saying a word. We lay in the cold snow, gazing at the pale winter sky, and there was something very warm in that silence. It was as if winter itself were embracing us.

Since then, the first snow for me has meant trust, peace, a sense of security.
About the tenderness that comes from the simplest things.

That's probably why I love this season so much.
In winter, I especially want to share warmth—in words, in touch, even in silence.
Hugs become longer, tea tastes better, and walks become more sincere.

There's something amazing about the way winter brings people closer.
How it forces you to slow down, listen to the silence, notice the details.

And every time the first day of winter arrives, that same childish feeling awakens within...
It's as if I'm lying in a snowdrift again, with snowflakes swirling above my face—so delicate, light, and alive.

I'd like to believe that this winter will also bring its own little miracles.
Quiet, warm, honest.
The ones that come without warning and change something inside forever.

❄️🤍✨