“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.
