The kitchen was quiet, save for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Time seemed to stretch, each second a reminder of the approaching meeting.
I busied myself with sorting through some old newspapers, their yellowed pages crinkling under my touch. It was easier than confronting the silence.
Every few moments, I glanced at Grandma, hoping she might offer a word, a hint, anything that could unravel the mystery of those cabinets.
But she remained silent, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, eyes lost in thought.
“Remember the summers we spent here?”
I asked, trying to draw her out of her reverie.
She smiled faintly, a fleeting warmth crossing her face.
“Of course. You loved picking cherries from the backyard tree.”
A small laugh escaped me, the memory of sun-drenched afternoons cutting through the tension in the room.
“And you always made the best pies,”
