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There is a special kind of cold that does not depend on the calendar. It is not the cold of January, nor the cold outside - it is the cold that fills a room when it is too quiet. It seems that even the air becomes heavier, and the only thing that can pierce it is the scent of hair carried by the wind.

There is no place for loud words in this story. Everything is held together by half-hints, restrained thoughts, conversations that never took place. Warmth and light replace each other here: one person can be brighter than any star, even if they are not there. And then loneliness ceases to be emptiness - it becomes a reflection of what was and what is still held inside.