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Weekly Contest #356
It smelled like her. It smelled correct. Like bread proofing and cawl on the cast iron stove. Like wood smoke and peat and the mineral tang of wet stone. It smelled like beeswax and sweet, soapy old oak. He dropped his bags and pulled the door shut behind him. He ducked beneath lintels and beams with the practiced ease of someone who'd grown up with them. Grown into them. The kitchen was a still life. A dishrag crumpled on the slate worktop, an ellipsis. Like the person who'd been using it had just stepped out to take a call. A bowl of wrink...
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