371: La Befana 🧙♀️🧹
Daily Image created using ChatGPT (Anime AI Art)
🧙♀️ The Old Lady
On the night of January 5th, the village of Rocca Bianca lay hushed beneath a fresh blanket of snow. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the moon hung low and full, casting silver light across the rooftops. Children slept with socks hung by the hearth, whispering hopes for sweets and small toys. No one saw the figure that swept silently overhead.
La Befana adjusted the strap of her burlap sack, heavy with hand-carved figurines, knitted scarves, and bundles of candied orange peel. Her patched shawl flapped in the wind as she guided her broomstick over the pine-covered ridge. She paused above the bell tower, lantern raised, scanning for the old baker’s house. He’d left a note in the window: “For the children at the shelter.”
She smiled, teeth crooked but kind, and descended. Inside, she moved with practiced care. A wooden horse for Matteo, who’d lost his in the flood. A puzzle for Giulia, who never stopped asking questions. A tin whistle for little Luca, who’d been too shy to speak. She left no coal tonight, only warmth.
Outside, statues of the Three Kings were set up, posed as riding along the valley road, their silhouettes etched against the snowy horizon. La Befana watched them from above, her broom hovering just beyond the treetops. She’d declined their invitation centuries ago, preferring her own route, her own rhythm. Not gold, frankincense, or myrrh—but socks, sweets, and stories.
At the last house, she found a girl’s drawing taped to the window: a crayon sketch of a smiling woman on a broom, carrying a patched sack, trailing stars. La Befana chuckled, then reached into her sack and pulled out a small music box. She wound it once, set it gently on the sill, and flew off before the first note played.
By dawn, the village stirred. Children squealed at the gifts, parents smiled at the quiet joy, and the baker found his note replaced with a sprig of rosemary and a folded scarf. No one saw the broomstick vanish into the morning mist, nor the lantern flicker out as the sun rose. But they knew she’d come again next year.
