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Weekly Contest #333
That Tuesday in winter, the coldest breeze found its way through my thickest sweater. I shivered, a tremor that began not in my skin, but in the gleeful pulse of my heart. A heart is strange. It shivers, quivers, forgets its rhythm for no reason at all. For all my twenty years, a subtle famine lingered. My mother was not unkind. The meals she prepared warmed my belly; I could smell their promise from my room, a siren call of spices and heat. But I would always find an empty kitchen, the food left steaming on the table like a ghost of care....
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