Imagine you little, in the countryside, for winter holidays.
It’s night, shadows embrace the silhouettes of the houses and you just stepped in.
After many hours of playing in the snow, you surrender to the warmth from inside the house.
You have taken a steamy bath, had your honey sweetened milk, and you’re in bed, all tucked in.
If you had my childhood, then your grandma was telling her special kind of stove stories.
Every new year, with the same whispered voice, from the life of the village, which always had it’s own dynamic and charm.
I remember even not daring to move underneath the heavy woolen stuffed blanket.
Words weaved like under a spell in the warmth of the stove, and with the bluish icy display from outside the windows.
Closing my eyes can almost take me there, back in time.. wondering what the story tonight will be about.