Chapter 1
Hasin doesn't like winter. He hates the snow, which is whiter than his pale skin. The snowflakes that plague the streets and the trees and every other place Hasin settles his eyes on are like feathers shed by a disgraced angel from heaven. He finds no beauty in the dreariness, no poetry in the paleness. He detests how the whiteness of the snowflakes stands in stark comparison with his black shirt, his black hair, his black eyes. He abhors the idea of the soft flakes gathering at the back of his neck and tickling his skin. 

For the exact same reasons, Sunerah loves winter.

Even though Sunerah loves winter, there are a few things she wishes she could change about it. Like the dry, lifeless trees, bare and desolate. And the bone-biting cold that stings. She dislikes the fact that the cold is sometimes so excruciating that it drives people inside shelters so that they cannot stand outside and enjoy the breathtaking scenery, wrapped in white. She associates winter with solitude, and she dislikes 
that as well.

For the exact same reasons, Hasin thinks winter isn't all bad.