Meuda

The city seems frozen between celebration and anxiety - the sky is grey, the lights flicker like indecisive thoughts. It's cold outside, and even colder inside. The voices of those who have seen too much and grown up too soon are filled with weariness. Here, instead of fairy tales, there are reports and gunshots; instead of waiting for a miracle, there is only the habit of holding on until you drown.

But even in this gloomy chronicle, there is still something human - like a light in an abandoned window. A little tenderness amid the concrete, a little hope amid the gunshots. Even if Christmas is no longer a holiday, but just a date on the calendar, someone, somewhere, is still waiting for warmth. Even if only for a moment.