Another rolled between his fingers.
They had quickly become a favorite in a very short time, consuming his very soul while he sat there by the fire, listening to the wind blow, beating the shack, his prison, harshly.
Two years apart...
They reminded him of him; the blonde that slipped through his fingers; his missing piece.
They smelled faintly of cinnamon, of him.
He was addicted to that scent.
He had slipped from his grasp, but these would not.
He was addicted as much to them as he was addicted him.
Roasted Almonds... were the only connection between he and Edward.