All the Light We Cannot See

by Anthony Doerr

One step behind her, her father tilts his head up and gives the sky a huge smile. Marie-Laure knows this even though her back is to him, even though he says nothing, even though she is blind—Papa’s thick hair is wet from the snow and standing in a dozen angles off his head, and his scarf is draped asymmetrically over his shoulders, and he’s beaming up at the falling snow.

Open your eyes, concludes the man, and see what you can with them before they close forever,

The weather in this place: you can feel it between your fingers.