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The air hums with the scent of pine,
a green that whispers of ancient forests
into the heart of the city.
Strings of lights ripple across windows,
tiny constellations
reaching for something
just beyond naming.
In the crowded streets,
laughter and footsteps weave together
like threads in a tapestry.
Every voice is a spark against the cold.
A boy clutches a box too large for his hands,
his grin outshining the stars
flickering above him.
Inside a small house,
a woman hangs a glass ornament,
its surface cracked—
a scar from years gone by.
It catches the light regardless,
spilling fractured rainbows
onto walls crowded with memories.
At the edge of the square,
a man plays a carol on a violin,
his notes threading through the bustle.
Few stop to listen,
but the music lingers,
wrapping around lampposts and wreaths,
echoing in the spaces
where silence once lived.
This is the season of almosts—
almost forgetting the ache of the year,
almost believing in the magic of beginnings.
The embers of December glow softly,
fragile yet fierce,
whispering that the dark is never final,
and that even in the longest night,
something always waits to shine.
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