There was a faint smell of old snow, the kind that lingers even under a sun that doesn’t hide, or of a freezer that hasn’t been cleaned in a long time; a faint smell of rock or of dry earth, but heavy or compact, that won’t blow away; of a cold lake and a cold wind, free of dust, transparent; something of the smell of my deer, Federico, but very faint, like a background; and a smell of green.
Carla Zaccagnini