Kitchen _top_ — Abby Winters

“Hello?” A voice, unfamiliar. Female. A little breathless from the cold.

Clara stepped inside, stamping snow off her boots. She smelled like cinnamon and something else—clove, maybe, or the kind of confidence Abby had forgotten she could borrow. abby winters kitchen

For the next hour, they moved around each other in the warm, fragrant kitchen like dancers learning a new step. Clara slid her pie onto the middle rack. Abby stirred her sauce and tried not to stare at the way Clara hummed while she washed her hands, or the way she leaned against the oak island like it had always belonged to her, too. “Hello

The timer dinged. Clara pulled out a pie that was golden and imperfect, its lattice crust slightly lopsided but proud. She set it on the island to cool. Clara stepped inside, stamping snow off her boots

Clara looked at her—really looked, past the apron and the defensive posture and the two years of stubborn solitude. “Good,” she said softly. “Some things are worth keeping, even if they come with a story.”

“This island is beautiful,” Clara said, running her fingers along the grain. “Did you build it?”

They ate standing up, snow falling outside the window, the kitchen finally full of something that wasn’t memory.