The little town slept under a blanket of fresh snow. Golden lamplight glowed along every street, and the air smelled sweet like vanilla and hot chocolate.
Alia stepped onto the sidewalk and spotted someone shivering on a doorstep — an elderly gentleman whose coat tails fluttered in the cold wind.
She pressed her hands to his cheeks. He grinned. A little golden shimmer drifted from her fingers and vanished into the air.
At the bakery, a child was crying, her cold nose running. Alia wrapped her scarf around the little one's neck.
The child stopped crying and laughed, holding up two sticky chocolate-dipped fingers. Alia smiled.
She passed the park bench, the library, and Mrs. Youssef's flower shop, warming anyone who looked too cold.
Alia sat beside her grandmother on the porch. But Grandmother's knuckles were white around her mug.
Alia put her hands on Grandmother's knees, but nothing happened. Her own hands were freezing. She looked down at them, trembling.
Grandmother slipped her frozen fingers inside Alia's palms and breathed warm air over them. Alia gasped as the cold melted away.
She understood — the warmth was never leaving her. It was just waiting to be passed on.
