It’s the 24th of December. A white cover has fallen over the ground, trees, hills and mountains in the distance. It’s almost like a winter wonderland in storybooks. A lone wanderer pushes through the thick snow cover as more keeps falling from the cloudy sky.

Freya stops on a hill for a moment. Before her opens a view of the forest and down the hill there’s an old red house that has seen better days as the years haven’t been kind to it. Most would regard it as like any other old abandoned house, but to her it’s home. Or at least the last place she could truly call home.

After the walk down the hill and past the snow covered trees, she arrives at the door. It’s barely hanging on its hinges. The windows around the door have been cracked and frozen over. Freya steps inside.

Snow has gotten in the house from the broken windows and the large hole in the roof. She hears the wind blowing through the house, venting out the vacant smell with it. Freya walks around the house, her mind flooding with memories of old. There was a time when life was good to her and the rooms of the house were filled with warmth and laughter. Stopping in her old room she spends a few moments. At least the house seems to have been free of vandalism for the most part.

In the old living room Freya finds the familiar old piano in front of a broken window, through which she feels the wind blowing again as the sun is beginning to set. She spent countless hours as a child practising playing it and singing. Carefully she approaches it, clearing the keys from snow. She used to play for any reason, happy or sad. It was her way of expression. Gently she presses one key down and from the depths of the old piano a faint sound rings out. Freya tries another key, then another. Her beloved instrument had defied the years of decay around it. She quickly clears herself a stool from under a blanket of snow.

Freya sits in front of the piano and reaches into her bag. Out she pulls a song book and places the bag to sit against the old instrument, while she goes searches the book for something to play. Her eye latches onto an old photograph of her and Wynona, her old best friend.

Freya sighs – the photo brings back memories. Most of them happy, but some sad. From behind the photo the title of the song is uncovered. She knows it’s old, older than herself, but she has finds fitting. Gently she places the book on the holder, with the photo sticking out between the pages on top, and prepares. It isn’t only the years of not playing, but also the fitting theme of the song that makes her hesitate. After a moment of hesitation Freya exhales and brings her hands out over the keys.