I looked at them, not quite believing my eyes. They were perfect.
Firm and crunchy on the outside with a gooey centre. They looked like
something out of a food magazine. Nothing like it had ever come out of
my oven. He would come running into the kitchen, attracted by the smell.
They were his favourite, after all.
He opened the door, put his coat on a hanger and came to find me in
the kitchen. Didn’t notice them, though, because we had to talk, he
said.
It was the last batch of brownies I ever made.
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