Morning broke soft and golden, slipping through the shutters in long stripes of light that stretched across the wooden floor.
The faint sizzle of bread in the pan blended with the quiet simmer of eggs, and the air carried the scent of warm oil and toasting flour.
Artur padded into the kitchen barefoot, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
His hair was still a mess, his shirt a little wrinkled, but he was alert enough to notice his father already by the stove.
"You're up early," Artur muttered, voice still rough with sleep.
Mr. Dand gave him a glance, then turned back to flip the bread gently in the pan. "Couldn't sleep much."
Artur crossed to the counter and reached for a knife to slice tomatoes, offering without words to help. Mr. Dand shifted aside, letting him in without protest.
They worked in companionable silence at first, the kind that comes from years of familiarity.
But this morning, something hung in the air—thicker than steam, quieter than breath.
