The street was dark now, the yellow porch lights of Oak Street starting to flicker on one by one. I stood on the small wooden porch, pulling my coat tight against the cold air that smelled of woodsmoke.
Before I walked down the steps, I glanced back through the front window into the warm living room.
Carl was still asleep in his armchair, the pale light of a single lamp casting long shadows across the worn green carpet.
On the low coffee table near his chair sat a heavy, polished mahogany chessboard, its hand-carved pieces lined up in perfect order.
Through the window, the mahogany chessboard looked out of place in the simple room.
I stepped away from the window and focused on the whistling kettle. The small kitchen smelled faintly of old wood and toasted bread, a dry, quiet scent that seemed to belong to another decade. I took down a heavy green tea cup with a chipped base from the wooden shelf. It was a simple piece of stoneware, glazed in a dull forest green that had spiderweb cracks running through the inside from years of hot liquid.
“Chamomile is in the tin by the breadbox,” Carl called from the living room.
His voice was thin but perfectly clear, carrying easily through the short hallway. I found the tin, which had a faded picture of an English garden on the lid, and tipped a few dried yellow flowers into the metal strainer. I poured the boiling water over them. Steam rose instantly, wrapping the tiny kitchen in a scent of crushed grass and warm earth.
I opened the cupboard to look for the sugar bowl, my fingers hovering over a white ceramic jar with a missing lid.
“You will want the honey instead,” Carl said, his voice closer now.
I turned to find him leaning against the doorframe. He looked small in his oversized gray cardigan, the wool slightly frayed at the cuffs. His shoulders were curved, but his posture had a strange, quiet dignity that kept him from looking entirely frail.
“How did you know that?” I asked, keeping my tone light as I held the wooden spoon.
