Cold, clean air hits first, that sharp stillness right after the last flake has fallen. Then something delicate breaks through, tiny snowdrops, faint and green and almost impossibly fresh. Underneath, damp earth rises up, rich and raw, the way the ground smells when snow begins to melt and the soil finally breathes again. Petrichor weaves through everything, wet and mineral, blurring the line between winter holding on and something new pushing through.