Christmas at Grandma's The old tortoiseshell cat stretched on the windowsill, her claws clicking against the glass as she arched her back. A thin layer of frost feathered the edges of the pane, but the radiator beneath her kept the spot warm—her throne. From here, she could watch the world outside without having to endure it. Snowflakes drifted past, lazy and thick, settling on the overgrown hedge where sparrows usually squabbled. Today, though, the yard was quiet. Down the hall, Grandma hummed something off-key, the sound muffled by the clatter of pots. The scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar curled under the kitchen door, mingling with the damp wool of drying mittens draped over the radiator. The cat sniffed, twitching one ear. She knew better than to investigate. Last time, she’d ended up with a dusting of flour on her nose and a scolding for pawing at the pie crust. A sudden thump from the living room made her tail flick. The tree had been up for three days now, and s...