Winter had settled over Kolma like a soft white cloak.
Snow rested thick upon the rooftops, curling along chimney edges and clinging to the wooden beams of homes that had weathered generations. Smoke rose lazily into the pale dawn sky, thin columns twisting in the frigid air.
The town was quiet—half-asleep beneath the hush of winter—only the distant crackle of hearth fires and the faint creak of frost-covered shutters breaking the silence.
The sun had just begun to rise.
Golden light spilled over the eastern hills, catching on the frozen branches of apple trees and making them glitter as though dusted in crushed diamonds. Footprints from the early bakers and farmers had already marked the snow in uneven patterns, but most doors remained closed.
Except one door suddenly burst open.
"Bye, Mom! Wish me luck!"
The shout cut cleanly through the cold morning air.
