The penthouse was quiet in the way I like best—no pings, no runners, just the city breathing far below and the rooms holding their shape.
Rose's laugh from the kitchen drifted down the hall, threaded with Stella's quick questions and Reika's steady answers. I stood in the doorway a moment and let the scene fix itself in my head: Stella on a stool arranging plates by size because "order improves flavor," Rose stealing a chocolate chip "for science," Reika moving like a metronome—pan, rack, board—never wasting a step. The photo we'd printed that morning—Stella mid-tongue, Rose laughing, Reika surprised into a smile—sat in a frame on the console.
Two "Moms" in one day. Said out loud. Claimed.
