Arthur felt the weight of the box. It was heavy, solid, and real. He walked to the register, the transaction felt less like a purchase and more like a bridge being built.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator, but for Arthur, the silence was deafening. It had been six months since Martha passed, and with her went the Sunday morning tradition of golden-brown, crispy-edged waffles.

The clerk paused, then softened. He reached past the high-tech models with digital timers and LED screens, pulling out a heavy, no-nonsense model with a simple dial. "My grandma uses this one," he said quietly. "It doesn’t beep at you. It just gets the job done."