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....