9

9

Noah.

The sky was bleeding violet when I knocked on her door. I don’t know why I was here exactly. I told myself I was just returning the scarf she had dropped while passing by my house last week. That was a lie. I could have dropped it in her mailbox or left it on her porch. But here I was, standing in the rain like a fool.

She opened the door with a smile. “You again.”

“I had something of yours,” I said, holding the scarf out.

She looked at it like she barely remembered it, then waved me inside. “You’re wet. Come in before you catch something.”

I don’t catch anything. Not the cold, not the flu, not even a break. But I stepped in anyway. The warmth hit me first, then the scent of cinnamon, citrus, old wood and candle wax. It smelled like comfort. It smelled like her.

“Tea?” she asked.

I nodded. She moved into the small kitchen, and I watched her from the doorway. She had this rhythmic way of moving. I used to walk like that after the war. After her.

I didn’t sit until she handed m