The farm had never felt so alive as it did that night.
The lights were still off, but the garden was already buzzing with voices, laughter, and soft footsteps on the cold grass. Guests wandered between the wooden tables filled with food, children ran around with crooked hats slipping over their eyes, and the scent of spices, pine, and hot chocolate blended in the air like someone had bottled Christmas itself.
I walked among them, greeting one person here, shaking another hand there. Some came every year, others were new faces, but they all shared the same look — the look of someone who had chosen to be there to live something simple and special.
“Marco!” a man called, raising his mug. “This hot chocolate should be illegal. It’s that good.”
I smiled, lifting the ladle and serving him mo
