The snow had been falling since morning soft, unhurried, endless. By evening the cottage was wrapped in silence, the kind that makes you speak in whispers without knowing why. Inside, the fire burned low, and on the sill by the narrow window rested a small crust of bread. No one remembered quite when the tradition began; it was simply something that ought to be done. A bit of bread for the wandering cold, or for whoever might be traveling through it unseen.
