Little Forest -

She knelt on the cold wooden floor, her breath a small white cloud. In her hands was a single daikon radish, pulled from the frosted earth the day before. The soil had crumbled away, leaving pale, wet skin. She sliced it slowly, not with a chef’s precision, but with the patience of someone who had nothing else to rush for.

The thunk of the knife against the board was the only sound. Then the sizzle as the white coins dropped into a cast-iron pot with a knob of butter. Little Forest

The morning light was the color of weak tea. It seeped through the kitchen window, catching the dust motes that drifted like tiny winter stars. She knelt on the cold wooden floor, her