The room is cold, it’s nearly morning. Outside the darkness lurks between trees and behind the house. The sky has a weak shade of brightness, but still it is not strong enough. It’s exactly the time when shadows return under the beds and closets, when clothes fall back asleep and stop dancing around in the room. Two feet climb down from the bed and step on the cold floor. The Persian rug is worthless. The winer frost has dug it’s way under the house and from there into the wooden floor and thick woolen rug. The huge red terracotta stove holds a vague trace of heat from yesterday’s fire. The scent of a fir-tree covers the one of ashes. A rooster announces the dawn. Cold rays of light reverberate in the ornaments hung from the branches of a Christmas- tree. It’s the day before Christmas and there still is a lot to be done.
In the other room somebody had already lit the fire. As the door opens the smell of smoke that slipped from the little metal stove reaches and covers the scent of the room. Shortly after, the rooms are covered in the scent of toast and before it can diminish it’s already replaced by the scent of coffee.
The house empties in a few minutes, everybody is out working their ways around what seems to be an important day to come.
Outside the smoke from chimneys crawls nearly invisible towards the sky. You wouldn’t even know it existed if you hadn’t felt its scent in every breath. Apart from it, all you can feel is the frost against your face and the strong light of the sun reflected in the snow.
And in the middle of all this a blushing child dressed in red makes her way through the snow drifts pulling a sledge behind her and hopping happily towards the village’s boundaries.

There are 115 days left till Christmas.