I found Rose in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled and her hair pinned up like a thesis that refused to be summarized. She had flour on one cheekbone, a constellation of white on her knuckles, and a stack of blank index cards beside her. Each card had a printed header that said House Favorites in tiny letters across the top. Beneath, clean lines waited for ingredients and notes.
"You're early," I said, because the sunlight still felt like morning and because the apartment was quiet in a way that seemed willing to stay quiet if we didn't startle it.
"I was hungry," she said, then added—in the honest way she saves for when it matters—"and I missed this."
The top card read Bread—First Attempt in This Kitchen in her neat hand. She slid a bowl toward me. "Water," she said. "Warm, not hot. We're not interrogating the yeast. We're greeting it."
"You realize you're founding a religion," I said, testing the tap with my fingertips. The warmth that makes butter polite.
