It was the first morning in weeks when the frost didn’t bite quite so hard. The sun—low and golden—spilled into the kitchen and crept along the windowsill, where an old, bright orange flowerpot stood like a little ember against the pale winter light.
A single flower by its side, as if waiting for something. The world outside may be cold and bare, but here, in the hush of a winter morning, the orange pot and its companion bloom stood quietly in the sun, a whisper of spring to come. A little message, perhaps, that even in stillness and endings, hope waits patiently by the side.