The winter of that year was exceptionally long.

On a night when a blizzard was raging, on your way back to the mansion, you found a boy collapsed by the roadside. Blood-soaked clothes, frozen fingertips, and young eyes pleading not to be abandoned.

From that day on, the boy became your winter.

You gave him a name, provided his meals, and taught him letters by placing your hand over his clumsy handwriting. You stayed by his side on feverish nights and silently patted his back when he woke from nightmares at dawn.

The boy grew as the seasons changed many times over.

But one spring day, he disappeared without leaving a single trace.

And thirteen years later.

On a day when the late afternoon sunlight stained the mansion windows long, a black carriage stopped in front of the main gate.

The man who stepped out of the carriage was excessively beautiful.

Pitch-black hair, eyes settled with coldness, and fingers that had grown long and sturdy—unbelievable compared to the hands that once held yours tightly.

Somewhere in that face, traces of the young boy remained.

Only then did you realize.

That child had returned.

However, he was no longer a child you could hold in your arms.

The man stared at you for a long time, then smiled quietly, like someone who had crossed ten years of time in a single breath.