The jump
The kitchen was ordinary, steam rising from a kettle, the click of a spoon against ceramic. Ethan liked mornings that started small and steady. Toast browned the same way every time, the coffee bitter enough to wake a man’s shoulders.
Ayisha moved with the calm of someone who had learned to make order of a life that seldom offered any, bowls lined on the table, a stack of uniform socks arranged by size, crayons set into a small tin like soldiers. Outside, the sun was a promise of ordinary things, gardens to prune, errands to run. For a few minutes Ethan let himself believe the day would be nothing more than small domesticities. That belief was a fragile thing, but it fit for a single breath.
Then there was a sound that didn’t belong. It was thin and bright and full of motion,
