After using the remainder of the car ride to calm down, we eventually reached home. To my surprise, when we had reached the flight of stairs, Tina had asked if I had wanted to come up. I had readily embraced the opportunity to avoid Renee’s dim and desolate apartment.

I watched the quiet night sitting on the windowsill of our bedroom. The world outside was veiled in a soft, powdery embrace. The snow carried a certain melancholy in its essence, as if it held the weight of forgotten dreams and lost moments. I watched as the city lights cast ethereal shadows on the snow-covered streets. The Eiffel Tower stood tall in the distance, its iron structure silhouetted against the night sky, a stoic witness to the changing seasons and the passing of years.

They say that when you dream of snow, it means you will lose someone you love. Last Christmas, when we had just found out Tina was pregnant, we had been daydreaming of our daughters’ first Christmas – which would be this year. We had imagined Paris would be covered in snow. We would have stuffed our fridge with enough food and drinks, because the traffic would have stopped, the stores would have closed their doors, and the central heating would have been out of order. Inside, the three of us would have locked the door, Christmas songs would have been playing in the background, and we would have been cuddling in front of the fireplace on Christmas Eve. We could have almost felt the warmth enveloping us as we had dreamed of the arrival of our little one, creating cherished memories that would have lasted a lifetime.