Snow drifts silently across a threshold that the living rarely cross, bright spruce and peppermint catching the last of the cold air before it turns still. Sweet creamy clove threads through earthy woody sage close behind, warming what should feel abandoned into something almost gentle. This isn't the decay you'd expect from a realm built for the dishonored dead. It smells instead like the last warm breath held just before the frost finally settles in for good.

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