The Frosted Morning

As I stepped outside, the chill of the late November air brushed against my cheeks, awakening me fully to the day. The grass was delicately frosted, each blade shimmering like a crystal in the soft morning light. I paused, my breath forming gentle clouds in the stillness, and watched as the world seemed to hold its breath.

A passerby, an older man wrapped in a thick woolen scarf, greeted me with a nod and a quiet smile. “Cold mornings remind us to slow down,” he said, his voice warm despite the frost. “Feel the crispness in the air, the firmness of the earth beneath your feet. Winter is a time to reflect, to appreciate the small moments.”

I nodded, inhaling deeply and noticing the sharp clarity of the cold air filling my lungs. His words stayed with me as I walked, each crunch of frost underfoot pulling me back into the present. The frosted morning, I realized, was not merely cold—it was a gift, urging me to be fully here, fully alive.