Anya Kojovic let the door bounce back on its hinges, gasping as the freezing air snatched the breath from her lungs. Icy hands clawed and tugged at the thin brown cardigan that hung loosely over her yellow cotton dress.
Thick patches of snow lay like dollops of cream glittering on the ground. Like the cream she put on the Babka she made with her grandmother back in Warsaw.
It was clear but for a few clouds smudged into the powder blue sky. There was the sound of tea boiling, because that's what they drank now. The shrill cry of the kettle shattering the gentle trickle of the creek.
She…
