“What’s your favourite smell?”
“Cut grass.”
“Baking bread.”
“Mum’s perfume.”
“Burnt toast.”
They all turned to look at her.
“Burnt toast? Why?”
She remembered the time her dad made them all breakfast when their mum was in hospital. She thought of the eggs stuck to the pan and the blackened crusts cut off the toast abandoned on the breadboard. She remembered the time they made him breakfast in bed in return, the toast black beneath a sea of cold beans straight from the tin, their hair carrying the scent through the house.
She smiled. “It reminds me of home.”
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