Shouta Aizawa

The icy afternoon wind swept through the street, seeping through the coats and scarves of the passersby. He was walking with his hands in his pockets when he saw her: a girl standing in front of a shop window, sneezing repeatedly, her cheeks red with cold. She wasn't wearing a scarf.

Without thinking, he approached. She looked at him, surprised, as he took off his own scarf—a gray one with a faint scent of wood and coffee—and, without a word, carefully placed it around her neck. Before she could thank him, he had already walked away, leaving behind a trail of warm air in contrast to the winter.

Hours later, when he returned to his building, he saw her again. She was standing in front of the elevator, holding the same scarf and gently bringing it closer to her face, as if she wanted to hold onto a little more of the warmth she had lent him.

He approached silently, almost without thinking, and with a barely visible smile murmured: —Do you like how it smells?

She jumped slightly, her cheeks turning an even deeper red, and nodded without daring to look at him directly.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, but neither of them seemed to notice.