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The yolk split like a jilted lover.

Bright yellow, molten, hot against cast iron black. It sizzled on impact, curling at the edges, whispering secrets in grease. He nudged it once—lightly, lovingly—with the angled edge of a wooden spatula. The pan hissed, satisfied. The egg agreed. Rosemary and black pepper tickling its belly.

This was his rhythm: barefoot, shirtless, bamboo joggers, sleep-sweat still clinging to the crooks of his arms. A kitchen awash in post-dawn gray. Blinds from every window open—exposing the morning routine—a naturist spectacle, ready-made for voyeur ingestion.

Not silence, not quite. The tick of the overhead light. The distant hum of someone else’s life above. Still, the sizzle, steady. Reliable.

He’d seasoned the Lodge himself. Layer after layer, year after year. Canola, grapeseed, and sunflower oil—once, disastrously, flaxseed. Ruined a weekend. But he came back. Stripped it bare. Loved it better. With more care.

He bought it six years ago. Found it in a secondhand…