Paprika sat close to the fire, her cloak heavy with melting snow, but her mind triumphed over the cold. There, among the ruins, she came upon a guitar.
The sound of the crackling fire brought her mind to the field beside her childhood home one still morning.
She envisioned her mother now, dancing in the garden. The sun shone on her as her fingers danced across the strings of her guitar. The soft melody played in her mind. It filled Paprika with warmth. The voice of her mother with the sound of the breeze.
A world perfectly wrapped in the love of family: The memory tugged at Paprika, reminding her of the happiness she once knew. The storm continued outside, but she was comforted in this moment, warmed by her memory of loving music.