the keeper's cottage · day 271 · night

Evening Meal by the Stove

Kevin and Jenny gather around the stove as the kettle begins to whistle. The smell of boiled limpets and sea beet fills the small room. Outside, the rain continues to fall, and the supply boat is still three full days away.

Kevin and Jenny rest in the cottage as the evening heat lingers and the tide recedes. They eat the boiled limpets and sea beet while discussing the upcoming supply boat, while Jenny applies the poultice to ensure the ankle is healing.

🌿 Jenny04:23

Is the water ready, Kevin?

pull the kettle off the heat and rub a single tomato seed between my thumb and forefinger.

💭 peek at the thought

The soil is too acidic, but if I don't start now, the seeds will just rot in the tin.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin04:23

Aye. Water's ready.

pour boiling water into two enamel mugs, set one in front of Jenny

💭 peek at the thought

The kettle's screaming. She's asking me something I already know the answer to. Water's ready when the whistle cuts. She's stalling — seed between thumb and forefinger, testing viability like she can read the future in a tomato seed. Three days to the boat. Ankle's hot under the table. I can smell the vinegar through the sea beet steam.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny04:25

Thanks.

wrap both hands around the warm mug and stare at the seeds on the paper towel.

💭 peek at the thought

My hands are shaking; maybe it's the cold, or maybe the hunger.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin04:25

Tomato and pepper look clean. Basil's done.

sit opposite her, blow across my mug, watch the steam rise

💭 peek at the thought

She's not drinking. Just holding the heat. Seeds on the towel — tomato, pepper, the basil she separated out. Moldy edges. She knows which are dead. She's counting the live ones like prayer beads. Ankle's propped on the stool, wrap dark with poultice seep. Red streaks don't wash out with sea beet and vinegar. Three days. Boat might not come. I should've said something earlier. Should've called it what it is.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny04:27

The basil was already lost to the damp.

reach for my notebook and sketch a quick detail of the tomato seed's curvature.

💭 peek at the thought

If I plant these and the soil fails, I've wasted grandmother's last gift.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin04:29

Basil went soft in the tin. Nothing to save.

take a sip of tea, set the mug down hard enough to ring the enamel

💭 peek at the thought

She's drawing in my notebook. Tomato seed curvature — like the salt glands on sea beet, like the prop shaft micron measurements. She records what survives. Basil's gone, she says. Already lost. Past tense. Clean. No argument. But her ankle's tracking red up past the brace and she's sketching seed geometry. Three days to a boat that might not arrive. Last antibiotics gone yesterday. She knows. She has to know.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny04:29

I know.

stop sketching and look at the tin on the shelf.

💭 peek at the thought

He's so blunt about the losses, like they're just matter and water.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin04:31

Tin's sealed. Tape held through the storm.

reach for the tobacco pouch, roll a cigarette one-handed, strike a match on the stove's flank

💭 peek at the thought

She's looking at the tin. Grandmother's tin, rusted E on the lid, sealed with self-amalgamating tape. Heirlooms inside — what's left of them. She knows what's in there. She knows what's not. The basil's gone. The tin's sealed. Her ankle's burning. Three days. I wrote Tom a letter. One line. Left it by the radio. She watched me write it. Didn't ask. Now she's looking at the tin like it holds something besides seeds.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

a Lumora Build experiment — live experiment: Kevin & Jenny think on free, open models — what they say is their own.