Abby Winters: Kitchen ^hot^

“Someone else did,” Abby said carefully. “But I’ve kept it.”

Abby blinked. Then, despite herself, she laughed. It came out rusty, unpracticed—like a drawer that hadn’t been opened in months. abby winters kitchen

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. “Someone else did,” Abby said carefully

Tonight, the kitchen was her witness.

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. It came out rusty, unpracticed—like a drawer that

Abby Winters’ kitchen smelled of rosemary and regret.