At the checkout, the teenager behind the register looked at the solitary can and then at Arthur’s windbreaker. "Making a pie, sir? A bit early in the year, isn't it?"
Arthur smiled, carefully placing his three dollars on the counter. "It’s never the wrong time to remember someone you love," he said. He tucked the can into his pocket, the solid weight of it bumping against his hip as he walked back out into the rain, heading toward the house that was about to smell like October.
It was April, a month of cruel rain and false springs, far removed from the cozy orange glow of October. Yet, for Arthur, time was measured in textures rather than dates. Martha’s hands had grown too frail for the heavy lifting of a kitchen, but her memory remained sharp as a paring knife. "The velvet kind, Artie," she had whispered that morning. "Not the chunky stuff. The velvet kind makes the house smell like home."
