Every winter morning, Hana looks at the mountain through her round window. One morning the window is empty — the mountain is at her door.
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Every winter morning, Hana kneels at her table with the mountain in her window.

One morning, the window is empty.

There is a knock. A small mountain is standing at her door.

So she makes tea for two.


In the warm room its snow melts away. The mountain looks unhappy.


She throws the window open. The snow comes in, and the mountain smiles again.

By dusk it had gone home. She bows to it through the window.

Night. Two empty bowls on the table.

In the morning, a gift on her table: a tiny pine tree, growing on a piece of the mountain.





