Chapter 95
That Is All I've Ever Wanted
Morning light in Smallvill was softer than anywhere else. Kinder. It filtered through the leaves outside my window, scattering the quilt with shifting coins of gold.
I woke not to an alarm, but to a familiar symphony: the gentle thump of a knife on a cutting board, the low sizzle of something meeting hot fat, and my grandmother's quiet, tuneless humming.
The kitchen held her like a painting. She stood at the old stove, bathed in gold, stirring a small, heavy-bottomed pot with calm certainty. The air was thick with warmth and spice, cumin, coriander, ginger, and something green and grounding beneath it all.
"Don't just hover in the doorway, child. Your nose already announced you. Come closer," she said without turning.
I stepped beside her, drawn in by habit and love. These mornings, these rituals felt older than time, as if we were reenacting something passed down hand to hand, woman to woman.
