The winter of my memory begins with white mist exhaling from my mouth like tiny clouds. Puddles by the roadside formed thin sheets of ice that crackled under my feet.

Every morning was bitingly cold. Icicles hung like crystal rows from the eaves, and the windowpanes were covered in thick frost flowers like maps of a mysterious forest.

Dad pushed out his old black bicycle, the wheels crunching over the frost. Seeing my cold ears, he silently handed me a pair of vibrant red, fluffy earmuffs.

I perched on the back of the bike as we rode to school. The fields beside the road were dusted with frost, looking as if they had been sprinkled with powdered sugar.

When we reached the school playground, my heart sank. One of my precious red earmuffs was gone, lost somewhere along the long, cold road.

I searched the path back again and again, my fingers growing numb. The dry grass shivered in the wind, looking just as helpless as I felt.

Back home, I told Dad I had lost the earmuff. Outside, the wind howled and the shadow of the old locust tree swayed rhythmically against the wall.

Dad just grunted a soft 'Mm-hmm' and continued eating with his head down. I thought he was disappointed, and I felt a heavy coldness in my heart.

Late that night, while I slept, Dad went out into the biting wind. He searched along the roadside with a flashlight, its beam a small, warm circle in the winter night.

The next morning, I opened the door to find a fresh layer of frost. To my surprise, the red earmuff I’d lost was hanging right there on the bicycle handlebars!

Mom quietly told me that Dad had searched the road for a long time last night. I realized then that his love was like the winter sunlight—not scorching, but warm enough.

That winter, I lost an earmuff but gained something more precious. I learned that true warmth is an inner light that can illuminate even the coldest of winters.