A slight thud, and then the wind howls in through the balcony door. I jump, startled. I was googling pictures of Irish guesthouses and my mind was far away in the milder climates of the Emerald Isle. But in February in Finland you don't let a door remain open if a stubborn winter wind has managed to tug it open, so I reluctantly get up from the sofa.
On the balcony, powdery snow is whirling around. I look across the dark, ice-locked bay and hear the wind rush through the night. The small city is already sleeping. I pull my sweater tightly around me but my feet, despite woollen socks, are already going cold. This is real winter in the North... and while I might wish with all my heart to be somewhere else, cry myself to sleep longing to for other horizons, this is home.
And someday soon, I will be homesick and heartbroken - for this. There is a bizarre hope in that thought.
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