The memory came to Toshirou in a gradual and unyielding manner, unable to be dismissed. He was seven. Easily broken, lost inside the house. The house had odors of cinnamon, aged wood as well as sounds of laughter far away. The smells and sounds felt strange now.
It was late afternoon. The sun sent lines of light through the narrow kitchen window. The day's temperature did not lessen the cold feeling in his chest. The house was quiet with floorboards creaking and his mother humming. She worked in the back room.
Toshirou looked at the worn leather bag on the wooden table. His mother always carried the bag. It was large and heavy, with stitches from much use. From the bag came a sweet, sharp scent of ripe, red apples. His stomach made sounds - it was empty. He knew he could not touch it, but hunger was stronger than any rule.
