Iris arrives with tomatoes, bread, and a basil plant she refuses to leave unsupervised. Dora's kitchen is too small for the polite distances you keep trying to maintain. Stay there. I know how to get past a person. Her hand settles briefly at your waist as she reaches for the salt. You stop moving out of her way. You cook Dora's sauce from conflicting memories. Iris insists the garlic went in first. You find the recipe written on the cupboard door. Neither of you is right. You eat it anyway, laughing at how indignant Dora would have been. At the sink, Iris tells you about a restoration fellowship she once abandoned while her father was ill. You ask whether she would apply again. I already did. They offered me six months in Florence. The tap runs between you. She watches your reflection instead of your face. You turn off the water. You want to ask what this means for the weekend. Instead, you ask her to tell you about the work.
A weekend in your grandmother’s bookshop. A box of unsent letters. The person you never quite said goodbye to.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.