The smell hits me before I even make it downstairs.Earthy and bitter, with something faintly sweet underneath—like moss and licorice boiled together. I follow it barefoot, careful over the groaning wood floors. The whole house creaks like it’s stretching after a long sleep.Elsie is already in the kitchen, hunched over a chipped kettle on the stove. She doesn’t look up when I enter.“You sleep?” she asks, voice low and scratchy.“I think so,” I say, hovering in the doorway.She doesn’t respond—just pours something dark into two mismatched mugs. No cream, no sugar. No asking how I like it.I take the mug she holds out and sit at the little wooden table by the window. Outside, the fog presses heavy against the glass, swallowing the yard, the trees, everything.Elsie sits across from me, sips slowly, like she’s done this a thousand mornings.I taste mine.It’s awful. Bitter, sharp, like dirt and wilted flowers and something metallic I can’t place. I try not to make a face.She notices a
Last Updated : 2025-07-01
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