Winter mornings in our home begin like a delicate lace veil spread across the world. The sky is a pale, noble blue, reminiscent of Mother's favorite porcelain tea set. Sunlight filters through the windowpanes, dancing with dust motes that look like tiny fragments of fallen star-stuff. Here, time flows with the rhythmic pulse of Father's antique clocks. Tick-tock, tick-tock... Each second is a quite melody, a gentle proof of our existence and our happiness!
I reach for my glasses on the nightstand and slide them onto the bridge of my nose. Instantly, the world blooms. Blurred lines sharpen; colors ignite. It's as if these two small pieces of glass are magical keys that transform the mundane into the miraculous.
??? : "Eluned! Sweetie, breakfast is ready!"
The voice floating up from below is Father's—full of life, vibrant and warm. I spring from my bed and race down the hallway. As I descent the stairs, the scent of freshly baked bread—that warm, reassuring smell of home—fills my lungs. Entering the kitchen, the scene I behold is brighter than the most beautiful painting in the world.
Father is humming a song by the stove, wearing a comical apron. He turns to me with that famous, child-like, and sparkling smile of his.
Father : "Good morning, princess! Did you notice the sun rose today in the exact same shade as your hair?"
He playfully ruffles my head. His boundless energy warms me more than the sun ever could. He is always joking, treating the world like a vast, wonderful playground. By his side, you never feel the suffocating weight of adult seriousness.
Mother sits at the head of the table, sipping her tea with a noble silence. Her eyes are fixed on the endless white expanse outside the window. Mother has always been like this: as still as a lake, as deep as a poem. She doesn't scream her feelings; she expresses them through her elegant, refined posture. When I go to her and plant a kiss on her cheek, she offers a faint, serene smile. Her tranquility is the safest harbor in a stormy sea.
And there, in the corner of the room, in her usual spot, stands Airesato.
My sister, my silent soul, my faithful observer. Airesato is so well-behaved, so polite, that sometimes you only feel her presence through her gaze. She sits in her armchair, watching our every move with adoration. She never speaks, but her eyes whisper thousands of words to me. "I see you, Eluned," those eyes say. "I am recording and this wonderful happiness in my heart forever." Her watchful presence reminds me that our story is a treasure beyond value.
Father : "Come on now, school time is approaching!"
Father says, dropping a large slice of honeyed bread onto my plate.
We eat breakfast amidst laughter. Between Father's funny stories, Mother's graceful nods, and Airesato's comforting gaze, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Outside the snows begins to fall softly; crystal flakes tap against the glass, playing their own symphony.
As I put on my coat and heat for the door, Mother adjusts my scar and Father waves from the threshold. Airesato's eyes follow me; even as I step on the the path to school, I can feel those reassuring eyes on my back.
The winter sun kisses my face as I step outside. The streets look like a white fairytale land. Walking toward the majestic school building, I look at the light filtering through the snow-laden branches. Everything is so clear, so perfect.
The world is so wonderful, I think to myself, my footsteps making soft crunching sounds in the snow. I love my Father, I love my Mother, I love Airesato's gaze. I never want this fairytale to end.
A snowflake drifts down and lands on my glasses. I look at the world through the slightly fogged lens. Everything is a soft lie—Everything is full of love. I reach up to wipe the glass, just for a moment. Just for a single moment...