Snowlight Dinner

The snow hadn’t started yet, but the light had already turned silver. Someone lit the candles early, their reflections trembling in the window. The table was simple — bread, wine, roasted roots — yet it felt like ritual.

When the first flakes fell, we raised our glasses. I don’t remember the toast, only the warmth that lingered after. Maybe that’s all a dinner should ever do — make the world feel briefly, beautifully enough.

Dine where time slows, and warmth holds steady.