Poetry | The Snail

In Stockholm, the winter darkness arrives just after lunch, settling over the city like a heavy blanket. Astrid sits by her window, watching a candle burn down—a silent, stubborn signal to a son she hasn’t spoken to in two years. She calls it ‘waiting,’ but deep down, she knows it is pride. The candle is fading, and the silence of the phone is deafening. Tonight, Astrid faces the hardest journey of all: the distance between her hand and the receiver. A story for anyone who is waiting for the other person to blink first.

Berlin in December is gray, damp, and smells of wet wool. For Fatima, a refugee from Aleppo, the city feels impossibly cold and distant. Desperate for a sense of home on Christmas Eve, she opens a jar of seven-spice and begins to cook Maqluba, filling her apartment building with the rich, loud scents of the Levant. But when a sharp knock comes at the door, Fatima fears the worst. On the other side stands her stern German neighbor, Frau Weber. What follows is a story about the flavors that divide us, and the unexpected tastes that bring us together.

A blizzard has erased the highways of Hokkaido, trapping a diverse group of travelers in a roadside station on Christmas Eve. There is a businessman with a deadline, a crying toddler, and a truck driver named Kenji hauling a perishable cargo of sunshine—mandarin oranges. As the power flickers and the vending machines die, the tension in the room rises. With the road closed and hunger setting in, Kenji looks at his sealed cargo and faces a choice: follow the rules of the logbook, or break the seal to feed the strangers stranded with him.

In Beirut, the darkness doesn’t fall gently; it seizes the city. On Christmas Eve, the power grid fails, leaving twelve-year-old Nour and her neighbors in a suffocating blackout. In a building where iron doors are usually triple-locked and neighbors rarely speak, the silence is heavy. But Nour remembers her grandmother’s beeswax candles and makes a choice. Instead of huddling in her own apartment, she heads for the dark stairwell. This is a tale about what happens when the lights go out, and we are forced to become the light for one another.

In Dublin, the rain drifts rather than falls, turning the streetlights of Temple Bar into blurred halos. Cillian sits alone in a pub, avoiding the deafening silence of his own home—a house that has been too quiet since his wife, Siobhan, passed away. He has set a place at the table out of habit, a monument to his loss. But when a soaking wet traveler stumbles into the pub with a backpack and a ruined plan, Cillian is forced to decide whether to guard his grief or open the door. Join us for a story about the ’empty chair’ and the courage it takes to fill it.