In winter, the trees' branches took on a dry gray hue. Their twigs were denser than the most fashionable combs in the boutiques on Bagley Street. Rough blemishes and knotted scars grew thicker along the increasingly stout branches, until they merged into one mass upon reaching the trunk.
Beneath the trees, ladies in woolen dresses and fur stoles clutched their handbags. Whenever they stepped on the loose soil beside the flowerbeds, they frowned with their carefully painted brows. They let out soft breaths, and the white mist emerging from their elegantly shaped lips froze in the frigid air.
As they complained about the weather to their companions, a newsboy sped past on his bicycle, stirring up a gust that sent the hems of their clothes dancing. They turned back wide-eyed, only to see the boy's slightly mischievous grin.
"Ring-ring—" The bicycle bell chimed. With a slap, a pair of somewhat worn boots stepped into the snow. A hand in a thick glove reached into the breast of a coat, pulled out a newspaper, and dropped it into the mailbox.
The newsboy tugged at the end of his glove, then pulled his sleeve forward. He shrugged, seemingly feeling a little cold, but still reached out and gave the bell on the mailbox a hard slap.
Just as he sighed, gripped the bicycle handlebars, and placed his foot on the pedal, he suddenly looked up at the house number again and stopped.
Not long afterward, someone dressed as a butler emerged from the estate gates. He carried an old-fashioned newspaper clip and a small brown paper bag.
Seeing him, the newsboy straddled his bicycle, braced one foot on the ground, rubbed his hands together, and exhaled a puff of white mist.
The butler stepped forward, took out the newspaper the boy had