I turned the burner on low and stirred the soup in a small metal pot, watching the steam rise. Through the door, I could see Carl watching me, his head resting against the back of his chair.
“Do you have family in Cincinnati?” I asked, raising my voice slightly so he could hear me over the stove.
“No,” Carl said. “I am quite alone.”
The word alone hummed in the small kitchen, matching the quiet of my own apartment since my mother passed away. I poured the hot soup into a ceramic bowl and carried it into the living room.
“Thank you, Megan,” he said, taking the spoon with a steady hand. “You have a very quiet way of moving.”
“My mother taught me that,” I said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “She said a quiet house is a peaceful house.”
Carl stopped his spoon for a second, looking down at the soup as if he were remembering something from a long time ago.
“Your mother was a wise woman,” he said.
