As the quiet town of Maldonia slipped into drowsy contentment, dusk settled into the horizon. Ripe snowflakes drifted through the sterling sky, with nowhere more important to be than the cobblestone streets below. 

That January was by far the most biting and bitter one they had ever seen, and the wettest, too. Maldonia was completely unaccustomed to snow, or anything more than slush. Most of their winters were cold, crisp, but without precipitation of any sort until spring approached. And even when spring did breathe life into each blossoming tree, running brook and fresh blade of grass, rain was simply mist, nothing more.

Maldonia was a straightforward, sturdy type, and bluntly so. Everything had a time, a place, and a reason; that was just how things were.

 And yet, with the golden gleam of street lights reflecting on knee-deep snow, and the smell of warm baked goods mixed with pines and sharp cinnamon wafting through the air, awe was invoked in every soul. The buzz of excitement slowly grew more dense as rumors of a coming blizzard spread. The street band’s slow, sweet tune was replaced with vivacious music that fused with children laughing and cardinal’s song. It was a merrier sound than even Christmas day. 

The humble town, with its practical shops, melancholy scenery, and dull houses, for once, felt lively, dripping with the quintessence of life itself. A small contradiction and break in routine had made all the difference. 

Even nature seemed to sense the change. The fresh evergreens, decorated by “heaven’s kisses,” stood proudly illuminated by glowing candles in the shop windows and the glistening icicles adorning each roof shone brightly in the starlight.