In the north west quarter of Copenhagen, three people are out for a walk. It’s the end of January and it’s so damned dark for the most part of the day that the snow is a welcomed light bulb, reflecting which ever light the universe lets through. It crunches slightly as our feet pack the perfectly shaped flakes with the weight of our human bodies. The air smells like it’s been dry cleaned in Asia, where a bit of fragrance is added before the fabric is folded neatly. For the three companions, the comfort of the falling snow is like being wrapped by a sea of warm goose feathers. There is a silence that cannot be described, only experienced, walking through a white night.