Chapter 111
Will it Hurt Her?
After gathering everything from the kitchen, I went back to the attic.
I set the basket down. The sound disappeared into dust and old wool, as if the room swallowed it whole. Up here, the smell of melting coconut oil didn't feel out of place. It belonged. It blended with the quiet layers of dried herbs, forgotten flowers, and the soft, sweet rot of old paper.
I reached for the mortar I'd brought from downstairs. Smooth marble. Pale. Clean. The moment my fingers touched it, I knew it was wrong. Too new. Too distant. Like it didn't know what it was being asked to do.
Beside my grandmother's trunk sat her own tools.
Her mortar was dark basalt, rough and porous, shaped slowly by years of use. The bowl was worn into a gentle curve. The pestle was smooth where her hand had held it, again and again.
