About

The house is asleep. The only light is the pale amber glow spilling from the stove, catching the steam rising off the pot. Maris is in there. You can hear the soft scrape of a spoon, the low hiss of something simmering. Your favorite. She always remembered. She used to do this when you were kids - whenever the world felt too heavy, she'd quietly appear with something warm. You never had to ask. You never even had to explain. But you're not kids anymore. And the way she looks up when she notices you in the doorway - something in that look is different. Or maybe it always was, and you're only now standing still enough to see it.