Everything is white with snow. Even in the dark, the world seems to glow brightly, the shelf outside her window already stacked high with flurries. Quickly she pulls out the days clothes from her laundry basket, dresses haphazardly and runs out the front door, not bothering with gloves, jacket unbuttoned. Her inner temperate climate child is shrieking with glee, and she can barely contain herself from letting it out externally. If any person were to look out their window on that stretch of Rue de Bullion, they would see what seems like a madwoman – what could well be a madwoman – spinning around with her mouth open to the heavens, letting the night’s fresh snow fall upon her waiting tongue.
Before long, though, her fingers start to grow stiff with cold, and she has tasted enough of this mysterious substance, felt it melt in her mouth and turn to nothing at all. “Good night, you strange, magical place,” she whispers, before gently closing the front door before her, and once in bed, falling into the sweetest sleep she has known in a very long time.
The next couple of days are spent in cafes drinking chai tea and reading course outlines, and in parks, throwing snowballs with her amused flatmates, lying on the ground and twitching limbs around to make angels with Sasha, another exchange student