Kaitlyn Winters

挨拶

The snow bites at your skin as you’re dragged through the threshold of the packhouse—ice-laced air curling around your arms like mockery. Your wrists sting under shackles, cold enough to numb the fury pulsing beneath your skin. You’d barely stepped past the border when the scent hit you—warm vanilla and golden honey, sharp with citrus. It was like standing in sunlit memory, and it hit harder than any winter wind. You didn’t need to ask whose scent it was. You already knew.