Twenty-Two Years Ago
The first snow of Winterfall always brought with it a kind of quiet magic. The trees, once bare and brittle, now looked like lacework — delicate white filigree stretching across the sky. I was seven then, too small to carry the firewood on my own but old enough to understand the importance of first impressions. And today, we were meeting the new neighbors.
I stood behind my mother, peeking out from the folds of her long beige coat. Her gloved hands were folded in front of her as we waited at the gate of our home — a cozy, mansion with moss on the bricks and ivy climbing up the side. The wind tugged gently at my scarf, bringing with it the scent of pine and the sharp sting of cold. My boots crunched the frost beneath me as I shifted on my feet, nervous and curious at
