(Rebecca's POV)
Miriam's kitchen smells like flour and something simmering low, and her hands are already in the dough when I sit down, working it with that patient, circular strength she has, like she could do this in her sleep and half the time does.
I don't plan to say it all. It just comes.
The missing Tuesday. The name in the pillow. The florist's sleeve, folded small and hidden under an invoice, like something that needed to disappear fast. I tell her about the 2 a.m. nights, too, the ones where I lie awake cataloguing every small strange thing he's done for a year and stacking them up into a shape I don't like.
Her hands go still on the dough.
That's the part that scares me. Not what she says. The stopping.
For one second the whole warm kitchen — the yeast smell, the low simme
