The sun had already slipped behind the rooftops when Ananya returned to The Whispering Bowl.
The little shop was quiet, painted gold by the dying light. The smell of new wood lingered in the air, mingling with faint traces of rice and dust.
Yao Qing had gone to rest, leaving the room silent except for the faint crackle of the lamp flame.
Ananya unwrapped the day's purchases — spices, beans, herbs — and stacked them neatly on the counter. Her fingers brushed the clay stove, cool and unused.
She paused, remembering the children from the bridge — their hollow eyes, their silence.
Without hesitation, she pulled out a pot and began to cook.
She filled the small pot with rice and water, adding sliced ginger and a few beans for flavor. The fire caught slowly, flickering like a heartbeat in the dim room.
She stirred quietly, her movements unhurried but deliberate. The smell of boiling rice filled the kitchen, warm and comforting — the scent of something simple, human, alive.
