“Babcia,” Ela whispered, crawling into her bed. “What is it?”
She made four dumplings. They were lumpy and uneven, some too fat, some too thin. They looked nothing like the perfect, golden Holydumplings Father Milko distributed on the Eve of St. Voracious. They looked like what they were: desperation shaped by a child’s hands. holydumplings
“Hands are not enough.”
Babcia Mila reached out and took Ela’s face in her two hands. Her palms were dry and rough. They smelled of nettle soup and the faint, sweet rot of old age. “Babcia,” Ela whispered, crawling into her bed