chapter four: the turning of the year
the longest night teaches us to see
twilight sky on the winter solstice
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threshold
The evenings have been lengthening for weeks now, slipping quietly ahead of the days. I first felt winter settle here during The Cottage in Winter’s Hush, when the light lingered indoors long after it left The Secret Garden. Dusk now arrives sooner than expected. Morning light takes its time returning. The world seems to shrink inward, drawing its edges in close.
I’ve been thinking about this turn often. How the dark is something we’re taught to fear, rather than welcome. How the longest night is framed as something to persevere against, instead of something to stand peacefully within.
But here, the Cottage embraces it.
shelter
When the light withdraws, the Cottage answers in small ways. Fewer lamps; more flame. Windows glowing softly against the early twilight. The rooms seem to listen as much as they illuminate, holding space rather than filling it. Winter doesn’t empty this place. It envelops it.
Outside, the shadows stretch long between the trees. Paths I know well take on new shapes at night: edges softened, distances blurred. The garden grows quieter, not asleep but attentive. It’s in these moments that I notice how the dark isn’t vacant at all.
Something moves through it.
pillar candles illuminate the cottage
the watch
Not boldly. Not with urgency. Just a sense of presence passing between trunks and hedges, felt more than seen. A shape where no shape should be. A pause where the air gathers, then releases. The Cottage seems aware of it, relaxing rather than bracing, as though greeting an old and familiar friend. Some nights, it feels like winter keeps watch over us.
The solstice arrives without spectacle. The longest night doesn’t announce itself; it simply appears. Time slows. Candlelight grows more meaningful. Even sound seems to soften, as though the world itself takes heed. I sit with the fire and let the dark remain dark beyond the windows. There is no need to chase it away.
recognition
This night asks for stillness, not defense.
Sokka understands this before I do. He lifts his head from his place by the hearth, ears turning. His gaze follows something I can’t quite track, eyes moving from window to doorway to corner, measuring the room. Then, satisfied, he settles again, pressing his weight into his hearthside wool, a low hum vibrating through the Cottage like reassurance. Whatever passes through this night is known here.
sokka in his hearthside chair
the turning
Later, when the air shifts just enough to stir the branches, the Corinthian bells answer. Not loudly. Not all at once. A single note, then another, caught and carried by the chill. They don’t ring to alert the moment. They greet it.
The year has turned.
This is the night where nothing is demanded of us. Where growth rests. Where light pauses before its return. Darkness, here, is not an absence but a shelter. A place where roots deepen, where promises wait, where guardians remain attentive.
Perhaps we were never meant to fear this night. Perhaps it was always meant to be embraced.
fading light
When the bells fall silent again, the Cottage grows still. The fire settles into embers. Outside, the dark keeps its vigil, patient and protective. The light will find its way back.
Until then, this is enough. The longest night has passed, though dawn has not yet arrived. The Cottage rests, and the year shifts quietly onward. I’ll return when the Cottage has something new to show me.
until we meet again – the keeper
Mementos that accompany The Written Pages are gathered here. Specially curated for the longest night.
A small collection of treasures that echo this chapter.
