The following days were slow. Outside, the world was awakening, the sound of distant snowplows a reminder that the path to the city was wide open. But inside the cabin, the clocks seemed to have stopped.
Jeremiah had turned the kitchen into a battlefield of flour and spice. He moved with a grace Michelle had forgotten—the way he handled a knife, the focus in his eyes as he reduced a sauce, the tilt of his head when he inhaled the steam of a simmering pot.
“Alright, Judges,” Jeremiah announced, wiping his hands on a flour-dusted apron. “The first contender: Pan-seared trout with a lemon-caper reduction. Daisy, your thoughts?”
Daisy sat tall at the wooden table, a napkin tucked into her collar like a high-society food critic. She took a small, careful bite, chewed slowly, and then tapped
