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.