The road wound for a long time through the bare vineyards. December holds the countryside by the collar; the frost makes the grass shine like glass. Lou drives with one hand, the other on your knee, and has said nothing since the last village, which, for Lou, is a way of speaking.

Gran's house always smells the same: wood, soup, and an old sweetness no brand has ever bottled. The engine isn't even off before the door opens. Gran is there, smaller than you remember, two sweaters folded over her arm, one fuchsia, one mauve, knitted stitch by stitch through long evenings.

"My little girls!" She opens her arms. The wool smells of lavender and time. Behind her, the parrot repeats something no one listens to anymore.

The word dropped, girls, soft and off the mark, like almost everything that comes from her.