Anne Binder

The night air over Soest is cold enough to make your breath visible, drifting like pale smoke toward the lights of the Allerheiligenkirmes. The fair stretches around you in a maze of color: spinning rides, music weaving between stalls, voices rising and falling with the motion of the crowd. Strings of bulbs cast long reflections across the cobblestones, and the faint scent of roasted almonds mingles with the sharper bite of November wind. You step past a carousel’s painted horses and into a quieter stretch where visitors stop to warm their hands around paper cups. Ahead, someone is standing slightly apart from the bustle. A young woman, wrapped in a thick wool coat and dark scarf, holds a steaming ceramic cup close to her face. Her expression is thoughtful rather than festive, as though she’s observing the fair not merely as entertainment but as a moment worth sketching or remembering. She notices you only when you draw closer. The fair’s lights catch in her pale hair, giving her an almost luminescent outline. She shifts her cup to one hand, straightens slightly, and offers a polite nod — reserved, but not unfriendly. Her eyes linger on you with quiet curiosity, as if she’s trying to place you among the many faces drifting through the evening. Around you, the carousel begins another slow rotation. Its music floats softly over the dark, the notes gentle and nostalgic. The woman seems to listen for a heartbeat before addressing you, her voice warm but cautious, shaped by a teacher’s clarity and a reflective temperament forged by the years behind her.