Between Lanternlight and Falling Snow

With wide, curious eyes, the child took in the market that had opened up on the otherwise dreary square. On most days, only the city’s many colourful pigeons gathered at the fountain. People passing through would sit on the benches, resting from their shopping in the modern centres built around the historic market square.

But today was different. Around the fountain stood many small wooden huts, and cheerful people were selling their wares. Different smells drifted through the air. From the savoury spice of fried mushrooms to the sweet cinnamon of pancakes, there seemed to be every scent one could imagine.

The stallholders greeted everyone who passed with easy warmth. Even the usually grim baker had a broad grin on his face today. In a strong, carrying voice he offered smiling stick bread and loaves baked in the stone oven. The spicy, nutty smell of fresh bread hung in the air, aromatic and comforting, reminding those who drew near of a feeling of warmth and shelter.

In the wooden hut beside him stood another familiar figure. It was the grey‑haired beekeeper, who always had a kindly smile at the corners of her lips. She offered her homemade honey and tiny beeswax candles. The candles stood in different sizes and shapes between the jars. The yellowish wax, pressed with a honeycomb pattern, gave off a sweet and gentle scent of honey.

The woman smiled benevolently at the children as they came closer and, after a quick, reassuring glance at their parents, placed a small gummy bear in each of their hands. They popped it into their mouths without a moment’s hesitation. For the adults, she handed out honey sweets, which she had made herself as well.

A humming vibration drew the eye. A young man was leaning against a stone wall, a dark brown guitar cradled in his arms, which he had just begun to tune. After carefully bringing each string into pitch, he lifted his voice and hummed a Christmas carol. Soon a small crowd had gathered around him. Some simply listened to the familiar melody, others sang along at the top of their lungs.

After a while, the music faded and the guitar disappeared back into its case. The passers‑by drifted on through the marketplace. Laughter rang out, and many voices mingled in the air around the food and drink stalls. Grown‑ups cupped steaming mulled wine in their hands, while children held hot chocolate in their small fingers.

Twilight slowly drew in, wrapping everything in a dark veil. Strings of lights and candles glowed on the wooden huts and around the square. Their soft radiance filled the market with a warm and comforting light. One candle seller placed tealights into her decorated holders, until her stall had turned into a flickering sea of stars.

The church bell rang, its solemn sound marking the fifth hour of the day. All the candles flickered in the faint wind that had risen, carrying the night’s cold, damp breath. Tiny, barely perceptible snowflakes began to swirl in the gusts. In the distance, an organ grinder played a familiar Christmas tune, and once more people let themselves be drawn towards the graceful sound.

All kinds of homemade goods were spread out on bright silk cloths, ready to become a gift for someone at home. There were intricately shaped clay figurines, which the potter sold to passers‑by with a cheerful word. And the small wooden pyramids with their tiny figures delighted young and old as they turned in gentle circles. The warm air from the candle at the base of the pyramid set the blades spinning and made the nativity figures dance.

As time went by, the market slowly thinned out, and parents took their children home, trading places with those who stayed behind. At home they would sing carols with the little ones and light the second candle on the Advent wreath. Perhaps they would read a book and tell each other stories, or eat the biscuits they had baked together. A contemplative and quiet Advent evening would end in a voice of quiet joy.