The first snow of the year always reminded
Raya of him.
The flakes swirled like little whispers of the
past, tapping softly on the windows of her
quiet cottage in Iceland. Each gust of wind
seemed to carry with it a name that hadn't been spoken aloud in years-Ethan. And each
flake was like a memory: small, white,
weightless, yet cold enough to sting if it landed
in the wrong place.
Raya was 27 now, a botanist who had traded
city noise for silence, fame for solitude. She
lived in a world of wildflowers and glacial
winds, where her only constant companion was the steady hum of nature and a stack of letters she never sent. The first one had been written on a December night seven years ago.