No Magic In Soup This Christmas

Nobody believes you are here already, but I know that you are actualy late this year. Perhaps, you were mourning, just like we, and lost the track of time. You would great him with fog, smell of conifer needles and wet, fallen leaves. He would find peace in that surrounding silence, broken only by the waking birds and sticks snapping under his feet. Whoever finds the first marshroom wins! The echo of our whispers seems to be vanishing... and you seem to miss it as much as we. Late fall, who cannot believe the magic man is gone. Drag your feet faster, so that we can doubt it together.