Meuda

The city seems frozen between celebration and anxiety - the sky is gray, the streetlights flicker like indecisive thoughts. It's cold outside, and even colder inside. You can hear the fatigue in the voices of those who have seen too much and grown up too soon. 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.