It was the edge of winter, the brink of all festivities to come past the mark of November. Suspense and joy and nostalgia and remorse hung in the cold air. Though work was still churning through people’s bodies, their minds held onto smaller fascinations, from the gift of rain to rekindled fireplaces to knitted wool mittens. Time slowed to a meditative standstill. People moved slower, too. They took longer walks from home to the marketplace. They brewed longer nights of tea. They dragged out dinner stories long past the plates were wiped clean with bread crusts and the stomachs were filled pleasantly.
Writing month, day one, word count: 1089