The sound of a wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the pot filled the kitchen with a calm rhythm.
In front of the old stove, Stella Rossi stirred the risotto with care, as if that simple motion were part of a ritual. The aroma of warm broth, fresh parmesan, and rosemary drifted through the air, wrapping the room in a feeling of home.
She wore her favorite cream wool sweater, as comforting as the house itself. Light gray sweatpants completed the look of someone who found beauty in simplicity. A loose bun sat atop her head, with a few brown strands stuck to her forehead from the steam.
The kitchen was modest, but full of soul. White tiles with floral patterns, a pot of fresh basil on the dark wooden counter, and the distant sound of church bells ringing softly at dusk.
Her mother's voice came gently, breaking the silence:
— Are you sure you want to leave, sweetheart?
She stood leaning against the doorway, apron tied over her navy-blue dress. Her tender gaze masked a tightness in her chest, though she tried to appear calm.
Stella paused. She set the spoon down and slowly turned around.
Her eyes met her mother's, and for a second, everything seemed to stop.
— I know it feels sudden… — her voice was calm, but her heart heavy — But it's something I need to do. You and Dad always told me to follow my own path.
Her mother didn't respond right away. She simply stepped forward and hugged her tightly, as if trying to hold on to that moment forever.
— I know… — she whispered. I just worry. Take it slow. And never forget: you'll always have a home here.
The hug lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough.
Stella closed her eyes, absorbing the scent of lavender from the apron, the warmth of the kitchen, and the silent affection that said everything.
Letting go gently, she turned back to the pot, turned off the stove, and served a portion onto a white plate with golden edges — her mother's favorite.
She placed it on the table with a soft smile.
— Come on, Mom. Dinner's ready.