Begum liked her tea the way she liked her mornings: quiet, rich, and deliberate. The black brew simmered gently on the stove, its sweet aroma curling around the small kitchen, settling into the corners like a familiar lullaby. She stirred it slowly, savoring the ritual, the warmth seeping into her hands before it reached her lips. Outside, the day pressed against the windows with a soft insistence, but inside, time moved to her own careful rhythm.
Shaz, in contrast, was a cascade of light in motion. Her hair was pinned up in a loose bun, stray strands catching the sun like threads of gold and chestnut. She moved through the room as though she carried colors with her, flowing from shadow into sunbeam, and somehow leaving warmth in her wake. There was an effortless grace in the tilt of her head, the gentle way she let her fingers linger on the edge of the table as if she were teasing the air itself.
The two of them shared the room quietly, a delicate tension suspended between the hiss of the stove and the hum of morning life beyond the walls. Begum poured tea into the delicate cups, the amber liquid catching the light just so, reflecting a small sun that belonged only to their kitchen. Shaz reached for hers, fingers brushing Begum's in a fleeting contact that spoke more than words ever could.
"You always take it too sweet," Shaz said, but her voice was soft, teasing.
"I like it that way," Begum replied evenly, watching Shaz's eyes catch the light from the window, dancing over her features, alive and uncontainable.
And in that small, sunlit kitchen, something began to shift, subtle as steam rising from the cups, yet certain as the morning itself. The world outside could wait. Here, in the careful rituals of tea and light, the first chapter of their story began.