It wasn't that he wanted more time, exactly. He wanted the feeling of time—the sharp sting of the cold, the way a hot cup of tea felt against frozen palms, the messy, complicated noise of being human.
"My mom said you might be lonely," she said, thrusting the star toward him. "It’s for your tree. It’s a magic star. If you hang it, you have to make a promise to the New Year." rozdestvo_tak_xocetsya_zit
"A promise to see something new every day," she said firmly, then turned and ran back down the hall. It wasn't that he wanted more time, exactly