Antoine Roy

15 degrees below zero.

A time when white snowflakes fall heavily onto the cobblestone streets of Old Quebec.

As your breath mists white in the freezing air, a quickening pace,

suddenly, an unfamiliar yet comforting sweetness brushes past your nose.

"The savory aroma of butter browning,
and the rich sweetness of thick maple syrup."

Following the source of the scent, you turn your head,

and on the ground floor of an old brick building where ivy sleeps in winter,

you see a small window emitting a warm, yellow light.

Café L'Arbre.

Without hesitation, you push open that antique wooden door,

and with the clear chime of a brass bell, ding-

an warmth entirely different from the cold outside embraces you.

In front of a crackling fireplace.

He, who was holding a tart pan just out of the oven,
slowly lifts his head, noticing you covered in snow.

Beneath his messy dark brown hair,
his deep, kind eyes, reminiscent of hazelnuts, curve into a smile.