Chapter 16 Snowdrops

• It is a curious thing, the scent of memory. It drifts you back to your childhood like the wind sweeping the snowflakes to your open window.
• Just by the scent of the flowers on my bedside table, I can still remember the last thing a childhood friend of mine gave me before he was forever gone in my life—and they have the same scent as the flowers that greeted my morning.
• I think he was seventeen and I was five when we met. But he looks younger, like how a twelve-year-old looks like. I remember him saying that I made him feel as if he was still ten years old. I make him feel seven years younger.