Sense: Taste

Notes: Nope!

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It was funny sometimes, that food reminded her of him. Every time she drank a glass of milk, a smile snuck its way onto her face. He held such hatred for the white stuff and made the most ridiculous faces when it was given to him, that she always found herself chuckling as she put the glass away. When her grandma made stew, she thought of the younger Edward, at his mother's table those long years ago. His small feet swinging happily beneath the table as his favorite dish swiftly disappeared from his bowl. Winry would only poke at her own stew, a sad fondness playing across her face. She made him apple pies, even though he wasn't there to eat them. They were something that he liked, and Winry ate them alone on the riverbank where no one would see her cry for him.

Her favorite time to think of him, though, no food was involved. It was when he finally came home to her, wandering up the little path to her door with a tired frown and an air of the world about him. His coming was always unannounced, and she would meet him at the door, freezing in surprise before letting loose and throwing herself at him, one moment making up for all the kisses and embraces they had missed out on in the past months.

No taste, no memory could ever compare to having him home again, standing safe and whole on the front steps.