The sky is gray, the ground is muddy. Rain from above, dirt from below. The kind of weather where you usually glance out the window and decide it is better to stay inside.

Without a dog, I would do exactly that. With a dog, reality looks different.

So, I put on my jacket, take the lead, and head out. Every day. In any weather. An hour of movement, whether it is storming, hailing, or the sky is just laying heavy and gray over the landscape.

Later, back home, I discover it: a dog hair on my sweater.

In the past, this would have bothered me. I always carried that little lint roller to remove dog hair from my clothes. Especially before meetings. When I was invited somewhere. A dog hair was considered flawed. Something that should be made to disappear as quickly as possible.

Today, I see it differently.

When I discover a dog hair on my clothing, it brings a smile to my face. I think of the cuddling on the sofa. Of playing with the ball. Of the little ritual in the morning, while I meditate and my dog lies beside me, breathing deeply and waiting for the day to begin.

It has long been scientifically proven that these moments do something to us. Stroking a dog releases oxytocin—the hormone that promotes trust and relaxation. Playing releases endorphins, and even a walk in the rain helps reduce stress hormones.

A dog enriches everyday life not only through liveliness and connection, but also gives us a solid structure. It ensures that we go outside—no matter how much we might actually be longing for the sofa.

This is where the true significance lies: a four-legged companion is not just a blessing for our mental and physical health, but it reminds us to embrace life in all its facets.

Suddenly, this little hair on the sweater is no longer a flaw, but a quiet sign of closeness, joy, movement, responsibility, and discipline.

Sometimes, we carry on our clothing little reminders of what gives our life structure and warmth.

Along the shore rests a clear, piercing cold that settles deep into the lungs with every breath.

Then it happens.

Without a sound, the sun pushes above the horizon. A narrow line of light touches the muted white of the frozen surface. The trees along the path begin to glow. The night’s moisture has frozen onto the branches, and in the first light they start to shimmer.

Each twig carries a fine edge of crystal. A beauty so quiet it seems almost fragile.

A jogger passes by, his breath forming small clouds in the frosty air. Usually, his gaze stays on the ground oor on the pulse at his wrist, timed by his watch.

But today he pauses.

For three seconds, he lifts his eyes toward the glass-like treetops.

With a faint smile, he continues running.

The lake remains still. The sun climbs higher. New points of light spark in the snow, and beneath the ice there is a soft crack.

It is a morning like many others.
And precisely for that reason, easy to miss.

Sometimes three seconds are enough
to restore something inside us.

Perhaps that is where
a small piece of happiness lives.

Outside, there is that padded silence only winter knows. It feels as though the snow is slowing the rhythm of the world – simply because it can. A timeless phenomenon, indifferent to deadlines, packed meetings, or endless to-do lists.

Inside, time seems to give in to that rhythm. Everything is slightly muted. Slightly slower.

Coats drip quietly onto the floor. Scarves are unwound. Cold hands warm themselves around paper cups. The espresso machine hisses, as if complaining about the morning rush.
Coffee to go. Names are written on cups – sometimes wrong, sometimes with a small heart beside them.

In line stands a woman wearing a coat that has seen many winters. In her hand, a phone she types on mechanically. Her shoulders are tense – that posture one adopts when the day already promises too much before it has even begun.

At a table by the window sits a couple. They speak softly, sharing a croissant. Crumbs on the saucer. She says something; he listens. She laughs, and he briefly places his hand over hers – as if wanting to store that moment of happiness.

Warmth spreads through the room.
Not from the heating.
From something else.

The woman’s name is called. She looks up.

The barista smiles. Not a big smile. Not a staged one.
More like someone who, for a moment, has chosen to truly be there.

The woman hesitates for a second – and smiles back.
Her shoulders drop just slightly.

Nothing remarkable has happened.
Yet something has shifted.

It was only a smile.
Nothing more.

Sometimes that is enough
to make the world feel a little gentler.

Perhaps someone carries that smile onward,
out into the snow.

Sometimes the alarm rings, and even before you open your eyes, you know the to-do list is longer than the day has hours. You sense conversations that might be draining, moments when you wish you could just stay in bed — protected under the covers, while the world outside moves on.

Then — amidst this mental tangle — you listen to the rain pattering against the windowpane and think you hear their voice in its rush.

You get up, slowly slip on your wool jacket, and for a moment, it feels as if a familiar embrace is settling around your shoulders. In the aroma of freshly brewed coffee lies a hint of their perfume, a memory of a smile, of warmth, of closeness.

As if they were saying: “You can do this.”

No matter what the day brings, no matter what weather comes, no matter what storm you have to brace yourself against — somewhere out there are people who hold us. Their warmth is present, even if they are in another place.

Like a quiet magic of life that you feel as a thought, as a feeling, as a silent piece of confidence that sustains us when we need it most.

Such people are there. Sometimes only in thought, sometimes in the heart, sometimes simply in the sound of the rain or in a sunbeam that briefly falls through the window.

And suddenly, the day feels lighter, almost joyful. Because you know they exist — people who love and support us who we are.

Foto: IZA Dominik Izaquiel Tomé

It was one of those sweltering summer nights in Manhattan — the kind where the pavement radiates heat, the air itself seems to shimmer, and the city pulses with a mix of anticipation, heartbreak, and joy. The air stuck with humidity, and every breath felt like breathing through hot soup.
The scent of New York City in summer?
A heady cocktail of steamy asphalt, hot dog stands, late-night pizza, designer perfume, sweat, and the ever-present undertone of car exhaust and ambition.
It was a night where hopeful expectations danced with broken ones — all wrapped in the city’s electric heartbeat. Every street corner felt like something was about to happen: a spontaneous laugh, a random encounter, memories that stay with you forever.

The protagonists of this night:
Two young women, mid-twenties, friends.
One: Black, with beautifully braided hair, Harlem.
The other: white, blonde, Sylvi.
Ladies night.

After hours on the dance floor, drenched in sweat and happy, they decide to change locations — their goal: to hit as many spots as possible in one night.

Harlem is already outside, her head tilted slightly toward the sky, as if trying to steal a bit of oxygen from the evening air — but the air is thick, humid, heavy.

Sylvi follows, pausing briefly as she leaves, reaching into a glass on the bar to grab a branded New York City condom —
when suddenly a voice from the bouncer shouts:
“Put that down!”

She freezes.
Looks at the condom in her hand in disbelief, then at the bouncer.
“Why shouldn’t I use protection during sex?” she asks, confused.

Harlem watches the whole scene with a knowing smirk, crossing her arms.
Sylvi takes a few steps toward the burly bouncer.
His eyes sparkle in that mischievous way you only find in New York.
He leans in slightly, hugs Sylvi, and whispers in her ear:
“Let’s just say: if he puts it on — and it fits — put your clothes back on… and run.”

The first hug of the night, where white, female skin meets black, male skin —
a moment of teasing, friendly protection.

The second hug, later that night in the subway station, carries a very different feeling. One that sinks in differently — that goes under the skin and stays there.

A moment that leaves nothing but quiet question marks about how and why difference shapes the way we move through the world.

After a successful bar crawl, both are tired, waiting for their trains.

On the opposite platform, a train arrives going in the other direction.
Within seconds, Harlem cheerfully yells: “Hello guys!” and runs toward two younger men who just stepped off the train.
They start talking, and after a while, Sylvi thinks, why not join their conversation?
She follows her friend’s lead and opens her arms to hug them — something very natural to her.

She tries to hug the man standing closest to her.
He steps back, almost in shock, unsure how to respond.
An awkward silence falls, and her puzzled expression meets a shy:
“Someone with your skin color would never hug us.”

The men are black.

Two hugs in one night.
Same city. Same humidity. Different realities.

One carried laughter.
The other carried history.

In a city built on closeness — crowded trains, packed bars, shoulders brushing on sidewalks — it’s strange how distance can still exist.

And sometimes all it takes is an outstretched arm to realize how far apart — or how close — we actually are.

Maybe we just need to learn how to step toward each other without assuming we already know the story.