I spend my final night walking through the house slowly, like if I take my time, the walls might remember me and hold me in place.
The kitchen comes first.
It always does.
I stand in the doorway with my arms folded tight across my chest and breathe in. The smell is familiar in a way that aches. Soap. Spices. Something baked earlier that still lingers faintly in the air.
Linda taught me to cook here.
I move toward the counter, fingertips brushing the worn wood. I remember standing on a chair because I was too short to see properly, my elbows flapping everywhere, flour on my nose and in my hair.
“Stop fighting it,” Linda had said, laughing. “You can’t bully dough into behaving.”
“I’m not bullying it,” I had argued. “I’m encouraging it.”
She had snorted. “That explains a lot about you
