Bone-dry and a little stern at first sip, then honeyed warmth creeps in as it opens. It is Ove in a glass: exacting, principled, and far softer than it lets on.
Unfussy, honest and generous, the kind of red you share with the neighbors who finally wore you down. Its bright fruit matches the book's stubborn turn toward joy.
A curmudgeon's armor comes off one neighborly intrusion at a time. Funny on the surface, grief-soaked underneath, and warm by the last page.
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