Abby Winters Kitchen — 'link'

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

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. abby winters kitchen

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. They ate standing up, snow falling outside the

Abby blinked. Then, despite herself, she laughed. It came out rusty, unpracticed—like a drawer that hadn’t been opened in months. Abby stirred her sauce and tried not to

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

Abby Winters’ kitchen smelled of rosemary and regret.