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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."

"Hey, Dad," she said, climbing the steps and sitting in the chair beside him. She didn't ask how he was; they had moved past that formality weeks ago. "I brought the ingredients for that stew Mom used to make. The one with the way too much rosemary." Mainstream

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. Elias looked at the ceramic bird, then at his daughter