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... and two wood-burning stoves. Steam hissed from a giant pot in the corner. And there she was, Nana. Stooped over a chopping board with a rusted cleaver in her hand, apron covered in flour and broth stains, her silver hair tied in a loose bun.

"You two finally decided to join the living?"

"Sorry, Nana."

"Sleep’s a luxury for folks who don’t need to chop vegetables."

She pointed the cleaver toward the counter.

"Get to it. And don’t you dare ...

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