The morning light crept softly through the wide window of the first floor, stretching like ribbons of pale gold across the old, cracked wooden walls. Dust floated gently in the air, glimmering like fine grains of sunlight suspended midair. Each particle shimmered with the quiet stillness of dawn.
The faint echo of Asfinne's footsteps resonated down the narrow hallway as he descended, the boards beneath his shoes creaking in response to each step. The soft sound of worn wood seemed to murmur stories of countless days past. In his left hand, he still carried the empty white plate from his breakfast. It gleamed faintly as the light from a side window caught its surface, flashing briefly before fading again. He blinked once, adjusting to the glow.
The narrow corridor gradually opened into a wider space, and a familiar scent reached him. It was the scent of wood and faint soap mixed with the lingering aroma of bread and butter still clinging to the air from breakfast. It was a scent that evoked warmth and safety — the scent of home, of belonging. A comfort that wrapped around the heart like a blanket on a winter morning.
He followed that scent slowly, each step unhurried, until he stopped before a large wooden door slightly ajar. A soft stream of light escaped through the small opening, glowing golden on the floor. Beyond it came the muffled sounds of water and faint movement. That was unmistakably — the kitchen.
His fingers brushed the door handle. It was cool and smooth beneath his touch, though faintly rough from years of use. With a quiet creak, the hinges yielded, and the door opened inward.
At once, the warmth enveloped him. The smell of cooked eggs and fried bacon, the faint steam of hot water, the fresh trace of soap bubbles — all mingled together in a single breath. The air was alive here.
The kitchen was spacious, larger than any other room on this floor. One side of the wall was lined with windows that let sunlight pour in freely, flooding the space in a golden glow. The floor, made of worn stone, shimmered slightly under the light. A sturdy wooden table stood in the center, its surface marked by countless mornings — a few crumbs of bread, a streak of oil, a soft sheen of use. On the walls hung neatly arranged pots, pans, ladles, and iron utensils, each placed with meticulous care despite the visible wear of age.
Asfinne stepped slowly into the room, the soft sound of his shoes against the cold stone echoing gently. The kitchen was quiet, save for the faint hum of the morning air and the whisper of water trickling somewhere nearby.
He made his way to the far corner, where a large sink stood. It was made of metal, slightly dented but polished with care. Clear water gleamed beneath the sunlight, and thin layers of foam floated lazily upon the surface, glinting with hues of silver and white like the shimmer of dawn mist.
Setting his plate and cutlery down by the sink, Asfinne reached for the faucet and turned it. A rush of clear water gushed out, hitting the metal basin with a crisp, resonant shhhh. The coldness of it kissed his fingers, startling but refreshing. He inhaled softly as he began to wash.
His hands moved with care — one steadying the plate, the other guiding the sponge across its surface. The soft squelch of soap bubbles, the rhythm of the sponge against ceramic, and the steady murmur of running water blended into a quiet melody — the music of ordinary life. A rhythm of peace that made the world seem, for a moment, beautifully simple.
Each time the water touched his hands, it felt as though it carried something away — the weariness in his muscles, the lingering fog from his dreams, the exhaustion that still weighed faintly on his mind. The morning sunlight caught the ripples in the sink, reflecting soft flashes of light across his face. In those flickers, he could almost see his reflection: a young face still tender with youth, yet his eyes glowed with unwavering determination.
When he finished washing, he lifted the cleaned dishes and placed them carefully upon the drying rack beside him. His fingers were damp, the droplets gleaming under the sunlight like tiny beads of glass. He let out a small breath — half a sigh, half a quiet exhale of contentment. The sight of the clean dishes lined neatly before him filled him with a subtle satisfaction — the calm of completion, of order restored.
But then, something caught his senses. A presence.
It was faint — the quiet feeling that he was not alone. The air felt warmer on one side, as though someone stood nearby. His heartbeat slowed. He turned, cautiously, his body moving almost instinctively.
There, not far from where he stood, was a woman.
A middle-aged woman, gentle in posture and presence. She wore a clean white apron tied neatly at her waist, her light brown hair pinned carefully in a bun. Her expression was serene, her lips curved into a faint, kind smile that carried warmth deeper than words. Her hands held a small cloth, moving in slow circles across the wooden table as she wiped its surface with quiet care.
The light pouring from the window framed her figure softly, casting a faint glow along the strands of her hair — golden in the morning sun.
It was Mira Elseth.
The caretaker of the orphanage. The woman whose name was carved on the doorplate outside her office. The one who had lived within these walls longer than anyone else. She was the person every child here called mother.
Asfinne froze for a brief moment. His pulse quickened, though not from fear — it was the sudden awareness of being seen. He didn't usually speak to her much, even though he saw her almost every day. He wasn't particularly shy, yet he often kept to himself. He preferred silence to unnecessary words. There were times he simply didn't know what to say.
But the sight of her now — her calm movements, the warmth in her eyes, the sunlight around her — made something inside him ease. The tension in his shoulders softened.
For a second, he just stood there, watching her quietly. The sound of water dripping from the faucet filled the silence, rhythmic and steady. The smell of soap and morning air mingled with the faint trace of lavender that always clung to her clothes — a soft, familiar scent that made the entire room feel safe.
His thoughts drifted backward, unbidden.
He remembered last night — the way he had pushed himself too far during his secret training behind the mountain. The exhaustion that had overcome him, the moment when his strength gave out, and he collapsed to the ground. He remembered the blurry flashes of people searching for him, calling his name through the forest, their voices echoing into the night. He was certain that among them had been her — Mira Elseth — the one who always stayed until every child returned safely home.
A quiet wave of guilt rose in his chest, gentle but firm. Yet within it was also respect — deep and wordless.
He straightened his posture, standing tall. His expression softened into one of sincerity. His right hand lifted slightly — a small, respectful gesture before he spoke. His voice came out low and calm, tinged with politeness and genuine warmth.
"Good morning, Miss Mira."
The sound of his voice rippled softly through the kitchen, mingling with the faint dripping of water and the golden hush of sunlight streaming through the windows. His words were simple, but they carried weight — the tone of a young man offering both gratitude and reverence.
In this orphanage, most children — including Sonia — called her Mother. It was the name everyone used, the name that held love and familiarity. But Asfinne still chose to address her as Miss Mira. Not because he was distant, but because he respected her deeply. It was his quiet way of showing regard, of acknowledging her as both a guardian and a person he looked up to.
Mira looked up from her cleaning. Her eyes, gentle and warm as ever, met his. She smiled — a smile that seemed to hold the sunlight itself within it. The corners of her eyes softened, her face radiant in the golden morning light.
In that single moment, the fatigue that lingered in Asfinne's body seemed to melt away. The air between them felt light, filled with something unspoken but real — care, trust, belonging.
The faint breeze from the open window stirred the curtains, making them flutter with a soft rustling sound, like the whisper of the morning itself. Dust shimmered lazily in the light, and time seemed to slow.
For a long, peaceful breath, the world held still — just the two of them bathed in the warmth of morning, surrounded by the quiet hum of the kitchen and the smell of soap, bread, and sunlight.
And in that stillness, Asfinne felt something loosen in his chest — as though every burden, every doubt, every weight from the days before was quietly washed away. It wasn't magic. It wasn't strength. It was simply peace — the kind that could only be found in the gentle rhythm of a home that cared.