The recipe, handwritten on a flour-dusted index card, sat propped against the salt shaker. It read like a secret code: “A handful of this, a whisper of that, and bake until the kitchen smells like home.” Not exactly the precise measurements Kylie’s culinary school instructor demanded.

Kylie sliced into it. The steam rose in a fragrant cloud. She took a bite.

It was sharp. Sweet. Complex. The crust shattered then melted. It tasted like her grandmother’s hands, like the old wooden table, like the creak of the screen door on a cool autumn night.

She used Granny Smiths instead of the tart, tiny green apples that grew on the old tree behind the farmhouse. The crust was a crumbly, butter-logged mess that slumped over the tin like a tired sweater. She’d even set off the smoke alarm.

That’s when the back door creaked open. It was Old Man Henley, the neighbor who’d known Grandma Jo for fifty years. He held a dented bucket full of those small green apples.

Kylie’s sat on a simple white plate.