The morning sun slipped through the narrow window of the hut, casting soft stripes of gold across the wooden table.
Steam rose from the bowls of porridge Mia had placed in front of us, carrying the simple, comforting smell of oats and milk.
I sat and started eating without saying anything, the weight of last night's thoughts still pressing quietly at the back of my mind.
The porridge was warm against my tongue, smooth and simple, sweetened just enough to remind me of mornings at the border camp.
My fingers curled loosely around the wooden bowl, but my mind was far from the meal.
The sunlight spilling into the hut was gentle, the kind that made the air feel softer, slower.
I wanted to sink into that warmth, to let the quiet lull me back into the cocoon I had once known so well. But the comfort of the room felt like a fragile shell, and beneath it, the world waited with sharp teeth.
