It was a cold winter day. It had been snowing all night and the small village was now covered in the most beautiful white snow. Everything seemed so clean, so white, so sparkly, so still, just perfect. There were but few people out in the cold, minding their business, hurrying towards where they were going, trying to ignore the chilling weather. Although they were dressed appropriately, they were shivering, stuffing their hands in their pockets and wearing gloves, too. But it was freezing outside and the gloves didn’t seem to be enough. Their breaths left warm steams rising from their noses up, above their heads until they mingled with the cold air and finally dissipated somewhere up…
The little inn at the outskirts of the village was teeming with life though. “SERVING WINES, NOT SWINES” was hanging above the door, covered in snow. The iron chains that kept the label were rattling in the wind making a weird sound which seemed from another world. All the windows of the inn were closed to keep the cold out and the warmth inside. And the smells, unfortunately.
The innkeeper was a man in his early fifties. He was single, had never been married, always busy with his business. He had started from scratch from an early age as he had inherited the inn from his parents.