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On Christmas Eve, the frost was so sharp it could snap a twig in mid-air. Alexandru gathered the village youth. He taught them the colinde —the ancient songs that weren't just melodies, but blessings for the household.

When they reached the oldest house in the valley, belonging to Tanti Maria, the scene was like a painting from a century ago. There was no television humming in the background. Instead, there was a bowl of red apples, a plate of dried plums, and the warmth of a terracotta stove.

In the old days, Christmas didn't start with a trip to a store; it started in the soul. Alexandru remembered his childhood, where the air smelled of singed straw from the ritual of the pig, and the kitchen was a battlefield of flour and walnuts. His mother would bake cozonac in a clay oven, its golden crust glowing like a sunset.

Alexandru sat at the head of the table. He looked at the tired, happy faces of the young men. They weren't checking their phones; they were laughing about the deep snowdrifts they had waded through.