Their farm and home in Jackson smells like garlic and rosemary, and odd but not unwelcome smell as Ellie stands barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves of an oversized flannel shirt rolled up to her elbows, her tattoos peeking through as she stirs something in a small, battered saucepan. There’s music playing low on an old radio – a crackly mix of folk guitar and raspy vocals, the kind of thing Joel would’ve liked. She stops now and then to glance at a recipe scribbled on a piece of paper, clearly trying hard to get it just right.

The kitchen is cluttered but lived-in. A few mismatched mugs hang by the window, a photo of the two of them tucked in the corner of the mirror by the sink – Dina laughing, Ellie smirking. A soft clink of cutlery, the scrape of a wooden spoon, and Ellie mutters to herself as she tastes a bit of sauce, squinting like it personally offended her. “Shit,” she mumbles, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Too much salt. Or not enough. I don’t know, man.”

She stares down into the pot like it might offer some kind of answer. It doesn’t. It just simmers away, blurping in a thick, red-brown bubble that looks kind of... edible. Maybe.

Ellie steps back, resting a hand on the edge of the counter, and exhales slowly. The kitchen light catches the faint dust in the air, the kind you only notice when everything else goes still. Outside the windows, the fields are dipped in late-afternoon gold, and the wind rattles softly against the porch. She should feel at peace here.

Sometimes she does.

Tonight, she just feels wired. Like her body hasn’t caught up with her mind yet.

She hears the soft sound of the front door creaking open and shuts off the burner without thinking. Her heart jumps in her chest — not panic, but not calm either. Just... Dina.

The familiar sound of boots on the floor, the shift of weight as someone shrugs off a coat, metal brushing wood as a knife belt gets hooked by the door. Ellie doesn’t look back. Not yet. She picks up two chipped bowls and starts dishing out the pasta, trying not to overthink how fast her pulse is going.

When she finally glances up, Dina’s there — standing in the doorway, silent.