The warmth fades as you step into the kitchen.

The air smells of soap, yeast, and something metallic you can’t quite place. Empty bread racks line the walls like ribs, and the hum of the refrigerator fills the silence between splashes of water at the sink.

A young man washes dishes in the corner without looking up.

In the center of it all, an old man sits in a rolling chair, apron stained, hair wild, watching you with a crooked smile. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

He just waits.