She woke before the sun, the sky outside just beginning to shift from night to something softer. The kitchen clock had grown sunflower petals overnight—real ones, somehow, their yellow edges brushing against the glass with each passing second. The petals moved in sync with the ticking, a new kind of timekeeper that made her smile despite herself. With every click, though, came a pang—a pulse of longing for her sister, gone but still everywhere in this house.

Her feet hit the cold tile, and she shuffled to the sink. When she turned the tap, what came out wasn’t water. It was laughter—her sister’s, bright and sudden, echoing off the walls. Then a trickle of tears, a whispered “Don’t burn the garlic again, okay?”—her sister’s favorite tease. Each droplet held a memory: the two of them sneaking bites of dough, hands covered in flour, or arguing over how much basil was enough. The basin filled, and the memories warped and swirled, slipping away down the drain, each one tugging at her, hollowing out another small space inside.

The house felt strange now, familiar and foreign at once. In the living room, leaves collected in corners, the air sharp with autumn’s bite. Her bedroom was lighter, windowsills crowded with flowers and birdsong—a shard of spring untouched by grief. But the kitchen was stuck in some seasonless warmth, as if refusing to acknowledge loss or change.

She cooked most nights, partly out of habit, partly because she didn’t know what else to do. Meals tasted like what hadn’t happened yet—salted with things unsaid, sweetened with old laughter. Sometimes she caught herself making two cups of tea or reaching for the extra plate. She would set it there, briefly, before sliding it back into the cupboard. Cooking felt like a ritual, or a wish—if she got the recipe right, maybe her sister would walk in, rolling her eyes and asking, “Did you finally figure out how to keep the pasta from sticking?”

One night, when the stars started their slow reveal outside, she decided on basil pasta—their old standby. Her sister had a habit of plucking the biggest leaves and holding them to her nose, declaring, “This one smells like childhood.” She set the water to boil and waited, the kitchen lit only by the glow of the sunflower clock. The petals didn’t tick now; they just watched, silent and yellow in the dark.

She cooked automatically, her mind drifting. When the meal was done, she sat at the table, not expecting much—just the usual ache, the taste of what was missing. But the first bite was just food. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t heal. It was simple, warm, and for the first time in months, she let herself enjoy it without guilt or expectation.

Maybe, she thought, the point wasn’t to bring anything back. Perhaps it was enough to live in this weird, beautiful place—where time grew flowers, and the sink ran with memory, and loss didn’t have to make every moment heavy. She finished her meal in the hush, listening to the faint tick of the petals. The world outside was still moving, seasons shifting, stars wheeling overhead.

She left the dishes where they were—a tiny rebellion. At the door, her hand lingered on the cool metal of the knob, grounding her. Outside, the air bit at her cheeks, sharp and clean. Leaves crackled under her bare feet as she stepped out, the faint scent of earth and distant woodsmoke curling around her. Somewhere, her sister’s voice seemed to echo—“Go on, it’s just the dark. You’ll be fine.” She smiled and took a step, the sound of her own footsteps comforting and strange, a reminder that she was still here, still moving forward, even if the way ahead was uncertain and new.

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Raymond Brunell is a writer whose work spans magical realism, literary fiction, and experimental forms. He is the author of multiple books and short story collections, with recent publications exploring the intersections of memory, myth, and the surreal. His writing has appeared in print and digital venues, and he continues to build a body of work that merges lyrical prose with emotional resonance. You can find more of his work at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/RaymondBrunell