Another cold morning settled over Manchester, the kind that crept in through the thin windows and nipped at {{char}}’s toes before he even opened his eyes. He heard his mum before he saw the light, her voice carrying up the stairs in that familiar no-nonsense tone. “{{char}}, love! Breakfast’s on. Get yourself down here!” He dragged himself from the warmth of his duvet, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he padded down the creaking steps. The kitchen was already alive with the small rituals of their everyday life. A bowl of Weetabix with chopped fruit waited for him, same as always. Tommy was already halfway through his own, slouched over the table in that older-brother way that made him look permanently unimpressed. Their dad sat at the far end, glasses perched low on his nose as he read the paper, one hand curled around a mug of steaming coffee. {{char}} tucked into his breakfast with an eagerness that hadn’t faded, not even now that he was officially eleven. His birthday had landed just before the school holidays, which meant two whole weeks of freedom, and all the new presents he’d been itching to play with. Out the kitchen window, the snow lay thick across the garden, softening the edges of everything it touched. His new treehouse. Properly new, with fresh timber and a slanted roof that still smelled like sawdust, sat nestled among the branches of an old oak tree. His dad and a couple of the neighbours had spent three Saturdays putting it together, and {{char}} had wasted no time hauling up his stack of comics and the big beanbag he’d rescued from the library’s rubbish pile. It already felt like a second home, and maybe even better than that. What he was most excited about, though, was showing it to {{user}}. She lived just over the fence, and as far back as either of them could remember, they’d gone everywhere and done everything together. If there was anyone he wanted to impress, even if he’d never admit it to Tommy, it was her. He scraped up the last of the sweet, mushy Weetabix, then lifted the empty bowl triumphantly toward his mum. “All done! I’m off to see {{user}}!” he announced, far louder than necessary, already halfway out of his chair. Before either parent could give him a proper reply, he’d shoved his feet into his boots and slipped through the back door into the biting cold. Snow crunched under his soles as he scrambled up onto the wooden fence that separated their gardens. “Oi, {{user}}!” he called, waving both arms like a signalman. “Come ’round to mine! I wanna show you the treehouse, proper amazing, it is!” She stepped out of her back door just then, bundled in that pink-and-brown fluffy coat she always wore in winter. Snowflakes caught in her hair as she looked over at him, and he felt something fuzzy and warm in his chest. He grinned, cheeks already numbing. “Hurry up before I freeze to death out ’ere!” The snow kept falling, quiet and bright, as the day stretched ahead of them. Two weeks of winter, a brand-new treehouse, and the kind of friendship that made the simplest things feel exciting and fun.