The kettle whistled softly.
Aira moved with the same precision she always did — steady hands, focused motions — but for once, her mind wasn't in rhythm with her body.
Behind her, seated at the small kitchen table, Seraphina Laurent waited silently, her fingers wrapped loosely around a porcelain teacup Aira had set in front of her moments earlier. She hadn't touched it yet. She was watching Aira like a dream she didn't dare wake.
"I'm not good with small talk," Aira said flatly, placing a second cup on the table and sitting across from her.
Seraphina offered a soft, understanding smile. "I never was either."
They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, brushing the glass panels of the sunroom with gentle rustling. The sound used to soothe Aira. Now it barely registered.
Her violet eyes flicked toward the woman in front of her.
Every detail — every slight movement, every breath — was being catalogued in her mind. She wasn't trying to be cold. It was instinct, built over years of training. She didn't trust easily. Couldn't afford to. And this woman — her mother — was still unfamiliar, despite the way her presence tugged at something fragile inside Aira's chest.
Seraphina broke the silence first. "Your home is beautiful. Peaceful."
"It was my grandmother's," Aira replied.
"She raised you well," Seraphina said quietly.
Aira's eyes narrowed slightly. "She did more than that. She protected me. Fed me. Taught me. She didn't need to, but she did."
Seraphina nodded, her gaze dropping briefly. "I owe her more than I can ever repay."
Aira sipped her tea. Jasmine and mint. Light. Sharp.
"She never told me anything. About who I was. Where I came from. Not even a clue," Aira said.
"She wanted to," Seraphina murmured. "We asked her not to. At first. Then she… she agreed it would be safer. That it was better to let you grow without the weight of our world on your shoulders. Until you were ready."
Aira set her cup down with a soft clink.
"She died before I could ask her anything," she said. "And now I have answers I'm not sure I want."
Seraphina's hand trembled slightly on the rim of her teacup.
"I don't expect anything from you, Aira," she said gently. "I didn't come here to take the place of the woman who raised you. I can't. I just… I want to know you. Even if only a little."
Aira looked at her — really looked.
This wasn't a woman playing the part of a grieving mother. This wasn't rehearsed.
It was raw.
And in that moment, something inside her — small, silent — softened.
"I don't know you," Aira said honestly.
"I know," Seraphina whispered.
"But I might want to," Aira added, after a beat.
Seraphina's eyes filled, but she blinked the tears back. She nodded, almost too fast.
"That's more than I hoped for," she said.
They sat together in the quiet, the steam from their cups rising between them.
And for the first time since the fire eighteen years ago, mother and daughter began the long, uncertain road back to each other.