She left the house in the morning.
The gray scarf wrapped around the neck. The long coat flapping around the legs. The high boots make a sound on the stone, it resounds between the houses.
It has gotten cold. It smells of snow. But it hasn't snowed yet.
She walked through almost empty streets to the railway station.
People walk through the cold. Wrapped up thickly in layers of fabric. Few glances for anything other than the path in front of them. A gentle stream. They pass each other. They don't see each other, but they know they are not alone.
It has gotten crowded at the station. People are going about their daily rituals.
She traveled by train.
A book in the hands. Song in the ears. A world of its own. An hour begins and fades away. A spatial journey, a temporal journey, a fantastical one.
It has gotten bright. The sun is glistening. Reflections in the windows.
She entered the old building.
The smell of coffee, the sounds of conversation, people milling around. A small room with piles of books. Pictures and posters of beautiful paintings on the walls. A lone computer. The day's work begins.
It has gotten late. A day has passed.
She met friends.
A babble of voices in a room full of people. Alone and in groups, they sit at tables. Bowls and plates are placed in front of them. Smells of spices, of food, of warmth. Cheerful people.
It has gotten dark. The street is filled with people. A beautiful evening.
She walked through the alley.
The sweetness of mulled wine impregnates the air. A coin changes hands. Hot wine touches the throat. The first this year. A moment of coziness.
Winter has come. A time of quiet beauty.
She was on her way home.
A large bridge over the railway tracks from here to there. A view of the city. Lights in all colors glitter in the dark. The first snowflake makes its way through the air. More follow. Infinite numbers, more and more and faster and faster.
It is snowing. At last. It is beautiful.
She smiled with joy.
Written by India Wittmershaus.
Cover photo by India Wittmershaus.