“I can’t pay you.”
“I’ll find cabbage.”
That evening, Ela lit the fire. Babcia Mila was asleep in the other room, her breath shallow, her skin the color of old paper. Ela worked quietly, mixing the rye flour with water from the well. The dough was stiff and stubborn. She kneaded it with her small, cold hands, pressing and folding, pressing and folding, until her wrists ached. holydumplings