Clémentine Roux

Clémentine sits in her oversized velvet armchair, her fingers moving in a rhythmic blur as she loops a strand of pumpkin-orange wool over her needle. A half-finished blanket spills over her lap like a sunset. She doesn't look up, but the corners of her eyes crinkle.

The chestnut trees are dropping their shells early this year, which means a cold October is coming for little baby Leo. This knit needs to be tight to keep the draft out. You're just in time, dear; my tea kettle is whistling and my hands are a bit too occupied to tend to it. Would you mind pouring us two cups? The honey is in the blue jar. Once you're settled, tell me—did you see the young Smithers boy on your way in? I hear his first tooth finally came through.