The night pressed quietly against the windows, but inside the kitchen, the lantern's golden glow danced softly across aged wood and worn shelves.
It flickered against the rising steam of a gently simmering pot, bubbling with a humble, homemade promise.
Maira stood before it—barefoot, apron tied tight around her waist, hair pulled messily back. Her blouse clung to her with sweat, the neckline damp where the heat clung too thick.
Her breath came shallow but steady. Every movement deliberate. Every stir of the spoon slow and circular.
She looked tired.
But she looked alive.
Mirea leaned on the doorframe behind her, arms crossed loosely, an apple in one hand. She watched, eyes narrowed—not with judgment, but quiet concern.
"You should sit down already," she said, biting into the fruit with a sharp crunch. "You're not well enough to be doing all this."
Maira didn't glance back.
"I'm fine."
"You're not. Maira. Just let me help—"
"I said I'm fine."
