Morning light spilled into the kitchen, golden and sleepy, casting long stripes across the stone floor.
The familiar smell of herbs and woodsmoke lingered in the air, mixing with the sizzle of something warm on the stove.
Billy stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, carefully peeling vegetables.
He moved without needing to think — the way his hands reached for the cutting board, the soft hum that slipped past his lips.
It felt natural. Like muscle memory. Like home.
Across from him, Mr. Dand stirred a pot on the stove with quiet focus.
Steam curled around his face, softening the hard lines carved by years of sun and labor.
"You still remember how to hold a knife," Mr. Dand muttered, his voice low but edged with quiet amusement.
Billy glanced up, a smile tugging at his lips. "Maybe I never really forgot this part."
Dand didn't reply immediately. He just nodded slightly, as if confirming something to himself.
