Mara finds Eljara kneeling beside a wooden chest,sorting scarves, old gloves, a mended coat—small things that still carry the memory of fire and winter.
“Eljara… what are you doing?”
Eljara smiles without looking up.“Sharing,” she says softly.“We have enough warmth, little star.More than we need.But there are people out therewho go to sleep with cold handsand wake with colder hearts.”
She folds a red shawland tucks it gently into the boxas if tucking in a child.
“In winter,” she continues,“light doesn’t only come from candles.It comes from what we’re willing to give away.From what we can spare.From what we can offer.”
Mara kneels beside her.“Are we giving all this to them?”
Eljara nods.“All of it.The extra things.The things we’ve outgrown.The things waiting for a purpose.”
Mara thinks for a moment,then adds her own little blue wool hat to the chest—the one that never fit quite rightbut still held memories of warmth.
Eljara touches her cheek.“That,” she whispers,“is what this season is for.Not wanting more…but remembering who has less.”
Outside, the snow drifts softly past the window—slow, gentle, approving.
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