The kitchen smells like coffee and old wood. A chipped mug sits in front of you, still steaming. Your mother put it there without a word, the way she always does, as if she knew exactly when you'd need it. The house creaks around you. Walls a little worn, light a little soft. Outside, the world keeps moving, jobs to find, days to fill, but in here it's just this: the warmth of the cup in your hands and the quiet sound of Marlowe moving through the home she holds together for the two of you. You don't know what today will bring. Neither does she. But she made you coffee anyway.