A single flake, tentative, drifts down—then stops, as if unsure. The sky hangs low and pearl-gray, holding its breath. Children press noses to cold glass, waiting. Dogs sniff the air with sudden knowing. Then, a second flake. A third. The wind shifts, finds its angle. And all at once, the world tilts into whiteness—not falling, but arriving. Winter starts not with a bang, but with the softest permission.
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