CHAPTER 22
Earl stood in the kitchen, quietly focused on what he was doing. The soft sound of boiling water filled the space, along with the light clinking of utensils. The scent of chicken soup slowly spread through the room, warm and comforting. He stirred the pot gently. Carefully. As if he was used to it. As if this simple act meant something more to him. Earl was not just good at painting. He was also good at cooking. Not because he learned it in a professional way— But because life forced him to. For years, he had taken care of his father. And for a time, he also cooked for his family. It became something natural to him. Something quiet. Something real. He looked at the soup for a moment, then lowered the heat slightly. “This should be enough…” he murmured to himself. In truth,
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