The dough clung to Erian's fingers, soft yet firm, as he folded and pressed it against the table in a steady rhythm.
The dull thud of it against the wood blended with the clinking of utensils, the sizzle of oil in the pan where one of his coworkers was frying onions, and the faint crackle of the oven heating up in the back. The kitchen smelled of flour, yeast, spices, and home.
Erian took a deep breath. He liked kneading dough. There was something therapeutic about the repetitive movement, feeling the dough change texture under his touch, slowly becoming elastic and perfect. Cooking gave him structure. It made him feel like he had control over at least a small part of his world.
"Is it ready?" Greta asked without looking up, her hands separating fresh herbs with enviable speed.
"Almost," Erian replied, turning the dough over and pressing again. "Just one more minute."
Greta clicked her tongue, satisfied.
"Smells good. Better than yesterday."
"I used more spices."
