Fish Soup

The summer was hot, but Ábel's mouth lingered on the heat of his mother's soup. Fifty-five years he has practiced perfecting it. But it was never the same. Too weak. Too spicy. Too much carp. Too little flavor. He can remember how it tasted with great perfection. Maybe he was making it the exact same as her, but it was the ingredients themselves that have changed in taste.

His mother could still make it for him, if she was not affected by the ailments of men. She had put herself away for slumber ever since his father's death. Grief had overtaken her. She did not want to die, but she did not want to be awake. One day, he hopes she will come back, and he can make her favorite soup for her.