Malt likes to bask in the warmth of the kitchen, nose full of pot steam. It also likes to bask in the moonligh…
Malt likes to bask in the warmth of the kitchen, nose full of pot steam. It also likes to bask in the moonlight, proudly showing off its round belly.
Home feels wonderful to Malt. People come and go, and every passing footstep brings another hint of food.
There is only one exception: someone who visits just before midnight. The flatbread she brings is always cold, and faintly salty. It tastes like tears.
Malt watches her cry as she breaks the bread apart. She is clearly heartbroken, yet she still gives half to Malt. It knows she is thinking of home, the same way Malt only wants to curl up and doze beside the woodpile.
The bread is a little bitter. Malt quietly rests a paw on her knee, nudges in with its fluffy head, and looks up at her, making small, pleading sounds.
Even if she cannot understand, she is sure to know. This small warmth of companionship is the sweetness Malt can give.