In a sigh of lamplight, rain drizzled down the hill. Damp. All was so very damp. It would take a magician grander than I to conjure heat from the shivering cold. The air was a scrooge, stealing warmth pennies it needed not. Eyes could not plead with city smog. Even the nightingales only leaked a slow lamenting warble.
Upon that cold day she felt the calling of her own warm heart, as if in these quiet moments it was her home-song.
The cold day out there could only come as far as the window pane, inside the home-fire kept him cosy-warm.
The cold day was all around, yet her good memories lit a hearth-fire within.
On the cold days she took sanctuary in her own warm room, cuddled up, resting, letting her inner fire play happily within.