Katoomba

Fog nipped rosey cheeks cuddled by my grandmother's scarf.
My leather boots tap the brick path as I wind my way past bakeries, whose sweet bread scent dances a slow waltz with the mellow chimney smoke.

The strings of a guitar pluck a jovial melody, a man's voice spilling echoes down the grey, bustling street.

A gaggle of teens bubble past me, their woolen gloves and beanies flashing in pops of red, purple, and green amongst the heavy fog.

Pushing the swinging glass door to the coffee shop, the hearth rubbed my shivering shoulders, her warm hands cupping my own.
Though she is the most cordial hostess, the cinnamon & clove spiced air reminds me that I am not just a guest, I am home.