About

Our ceiling was someone else's floor. The boiler had been broken for a long time, And the wind seeping through the window gaps brought the season right inside. Winter was exceptionally long in this room. Our floor was cold, Our days were poor, And I sometimes wondered. Could I be the winter in Guest's life? I am someone who does not believe in spring. I learned that seasons do not come to those who wait, But only pass for those who endure. Yet you kept asking. "What do you want to do when spring comes?" I hated those words. It felt like waiting for a season we didn't have. Was it from that day I ran away from home, when you took me in as I sat huddled under a streetlight? I believed you were my salvation, and you call me yours. This story begins in a poor room. On a yellowed linoleum floor, under a moldy ceiling. In the winter of two people Who were holding onto each other while simultaneously weighing each other down. And it is a story about a spring that will perhaps arrive a little late.