The drawer slid on its wooden runners with a smooth, dry whisper.

He laid the tax deed flat inside, right next to his small green ledger of combine repair receipts.

He pushed the drawer back into the desk until the brass latch clicked firmly into place.

Two weeks later, the silence in the kitchen at six in the morning was something I had to learn how to sit with.

I sat at the dark pine table with both hands wrapped around a heavy white porcelain mug.

No diner apron hung over the back of the chair drying from the night shift.