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My grandmother taught my mum 

to knead resilience into her dough.

Bread that could outlast winter, war.

A marriage that left her hungry.

Some loaves rose soft, sweet. 

Others came out cracked, blackened. 

Mum learned them all—

sifted herself into the mix, 

folded her tongue like baking paper.

She showed me how to pierce pastry

so steam could escape.

This is how we keep going. 

This is how we last.

But I'd like to let some recipes go.

Let them lift from my hands,

drift through my kitchen window.

A puff of flour lost to the breeze.

If I have daughters, 

I'll teach them to stir something bold into their cakes.

Something bright, and deep—orange zest, wild honey,

moss-green cardamom, sun-warmed cinnamon.

I’ll show them how to nourish their intuition,

how to read the whispers beneath their ribs.

How to whip fire into chili-spiced chocolate,

how to soothe rage with movement and rose.

I’ll pass down recipes for laughter, for lightness.

For the bloom of their own voices.

And in the meantime, 

I’ll practice these recipes for myself.

I didn't answer. We both knew exactly who put bones in walls.

Ten minutes later, James slid to the floor, head in his hands.

"Think it's real?" I whispered.

"How the fuck would I know, Steph?" he snapped.

I grabbed his phone, typed: How to tell if a bone is real. Then, stomach twisting: How to tell if bone is human. 

I showed James. He read it, then dropped his gaze back to the carpet.

Visions slammed through my head: police tape, nosy neighbours, excited journalists. Our house value plunging. We'd be the "bone house couple," doomed to disclose it if we ever decided to sell. "Character property with... quirks" on Rightmove.

"Should we call someone?" James asked, absently picking at dry skin on his elbow.

"I don't know," I said, already exhausted. "What if it's just... animals?"

James stared. I held his gaze.

"Like, really large rats?" I ventured.

"Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "Massive rats. Victorian rats."

"Plague rats," I echoed, forcing a grim smile.

We never mentioned the bone again. We just patched the hole and covered it with embossed wallpaper – the same hideous pattern we'd stripped. James' mum said the walls looked lovely.

Some stains nourish,

turn to wine in the dark,

fermenting in glass jars 

with the slow stir of time.

Frothing, bubbling,

until they become something

sweet, rich, and good,

feeding you,

warming your bones like Ma's coal fire.

But some stains are poison,

turn to ooze in the gloom,

seething in silence

with the cruel gnaw of time.

Souring, blackening, 

until they become something

bitter, cold, and sharp,

numbing you,

until no fire can ever warm you again.