Steam curled from the chipped mug in front of Ruth, carrying the faint scent of chamomile. She cradled it between both palms, letting the warmth seep into her skin. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock above the door—a sound that always seemed louder in the evenings, when the house felt too big for one person.
She turned her hands over, palms up, then down again, studying them in the lamplight. Once they had been smooth, the nails neatly painted in pale pinks. Now the veins stood out in gentle ridges, the skin marked with faint folds and small brown spots. Her wedding ring, looser than it used to be, slid slightly when she shifted her grip on the mug.
Her late husband, Harold, had loved her hands. "Artist's hands," he'd called them, though she had never painted anything in her life. "They make beauty," he'd say, watching her knit a blanket, tend the roses in the garden, or stir a pot of soup. "That's art enough for me." She could still picture the way his own rougher fingers had wrapped around hers, firm and sure.
Without him, her hands seemed older somehow, less graceful. She'd stopped wearing bright nail polish after the funeral. The colors felt out of place now.
Her eyes drifted to the counter, where a tin of cookies waited to be carried out. She had baked them for tonight's meeting at the church—Wonderfully Made Women's Group, the flyer had called it. She told herself she was just being helpful, contributing something sweet. But if she was honest, she craved the sound of laughter, the gentle chaos of voices layered over one another. It had been months since she'd sat in a room full of women and felt part of something.
She rose from the table slowly—her knees ached a little more these days—and wrapped a scarf around her neck. The mirror in the hallway caught her on the way out. She paused, tilting her head. The woman staring back had silver threaded through her hair and lines around her eyes, but there was still something alive in her gaze.
"Be brave, Ruth," she whispered to her reflection.
Stepping out into the evening air, she carried the cookies carefully, the cool breeze brushing against her cheeks. Somewhere deep down, she hoped this night might be more than just another quiet Thursday