Rabok

A horse‑drawn carriage rattles away from Budapest’s bustling station, its driver swaddling a massive suitcase in a thick blanket against the falling snow. Inside, an elderly woman, a small girl with white‑fingered hands, and a young man who whispers “to the old dentist” settle into the cramped space, their breath fogging the frosted windows. The city’s thin, powdery snow muffles sounds, turning the streets into a hushed, upholstered room, but the child’s eyes linger on the fleeting flakes, yearning for the deep, true winter she has only imagined.

As the carriage leaves the polished avenues, the landscape opens to fields, gardens, and distant vineyards, each blanketed in a more genuine white. The girl’s delight grows with every stretch of pristine snow, while the old woman mutters bitter recollections of loss and distrust. Ahead, a solitary yellow house looms among bare trees, drawing the little passenger’s curious stare and hinting at a place where the journey might change direction.