Elara thought about this. “For me,” she said slowly, “winter starts when the streetlights come on at four-thirty in the afternoon. It feels like the day gives up. Like it just… quits.”
Elara pressed her palm against the frosted windowpane. The glass was so cold it felt wet, and through the blur of her breath, the backyard looked like a photograph drained of color. The maple tree was a skeleton of black twigs. The grass was a stiff, brown carpet. The sky was the color of an old bruise.
Leo nodded, his eyes soft. “That’s a good one. A sad one, but a good one.”
Leo squeezed her hand. “Yes,” he said. “Welcome to winter.”