October is when the whispers of winter are heard.
I could sit outside all day and listen to the stories they bring.
Mostly they speak of cold lampposts in lonely streets but there a few that talk of families all huddled up in bed, warm mugs of milk in their hands and the laughter that they share.
Maybe that’s why it never gets as cold over there, even in the coldest places some of the stories made in them are too warm for the chill to bite in.
Maybe I’ll find myself in a place like that someday, cold and unforgiving where I will try and recall the warmest of stories and cover myself with a blanket of them.