The pot has been on since three. Tiny meatballs, escarole, a broth that takes the whole afternoon. By six the windows are fogged and something warm and deep has settled into every corner of the kitchen.
Outside, March is still making up its mind. Rain steady against the glass, the kind that doesn't build or ease — just continues. A heavy fog off the lake has swallowed the buildings whole.
Firelight moves on the walls — that particular flicker that makes a room feel smaller, closer. There's a kind of living that happens in these hours. Gathered in, doors closed, the evening turning inward on itself. The table set for no reason except that it's Thursday and the soup is ready.
Chicago in the window, all that cold lake air. Inside, the candle burns down another half inch.
