Days slipped by in the soft rhythm only village life knew. The world didn't rush here. It moved with the sunrise, the sound of roosters, the low hum of wind through trees.
Each morning began the same — with the clatter of pans in the kitchen.
"Hand me that bowl, will you?" Mr. Dand would say, already halfway through peeling yams.
Billy, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, passed it over with a small grin. "You don't sleep, do you?"
Mr. Dand chuckled. "At my age, sleep wastes daylight."
Artur stumbled in moments later, hair tousled, blinking like someone still at war with the morning.
Billy smirked over his shoulder. "Look who finally woke up."
"Don't start," Artur muttered, reaching for the kettle.
Breakfast was always shared — simple, hearty, warm. Nothing fancy, but everything tasted better now, like coming full circle.
The week found them falling back into old patterns.
