Elias looked at the ceramic bird, then at his daughter. The silence was still there, but it didn't feel quite so heavy anymore. "She did use too much," he admitted, his voice a bit rusty. "But I think I remember the trick to the broth."
He looked down at his hands—rough, calloused, and currently holding a small, chipped ceramic bird Martha had bought at a garage sale years ago. He had hated it then, calling it "clutter," but now it was the most important thing in the world. It was a tangible piece of her. Mainstream
A car pulled into the driveway. His daughter, Sarah, stepped out, her face mirrored his own—tired, but resilient. She carried a bag of groceries and a determined smile. Elias looked at the ceramic bird, then at his daughter