The morning air inside the orphanage kitchen was thick with the scent of toasted flour, boiled root vegetables, and sweet woodsmoke.
Philia stood near the heavy wooden prep table, his sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows as he chopped dried herbs into a small clay bowl. Beside him, Nora was bustling between the stove and the counter, her worn apron smudged with flour as she stirred a large pot of morning porridge. The fire crackled softly in the brick hearth, casting a warm, golden glow across the low-ceilinged room.
It was quiet, a mundane, peaceful kind of quiet that simply didn't exist within the walls of the imperial palace.
"Pass me that salt pinch, child," Nora murmured, her voice rough from the morning cold but warm with familiarity.
Philia reached for the small wooden container, sliding it across the flour-dusted table with a soft, gentle smile. "Here you go, Nora."
