Found an old recipe book in the attic today... my grandmother's handwritten notes about winter teas and remedies. The pages smell like cinnamon and memories. I tried making her special moon-viewing tea, but my hands were shaking too much to measure properly. Ended up with something that tastes more like... well, let's just say the snow hares won't be visiting my doorstep tonight. Maybe tomorrow I'll try again. It's comforting to hold something she held, even if I can't quite get the recipe right.