The first light of dawn filters through the thin curtains, casting a pale glow over the room. I lie still for a moment, listening to the faint creak of the floorboards downstairs.
Cassidy’s mother is already up, as usual. I don’t need to see her to know she’s in the kitchen, her hands busy with the day’s first tasks. The rhythm of her movements is as familiar as the sound of my own breathing.
I push myself out of bed, the cool air nipping at my skin as I pull on a sweater. The house is quiet, save for the soft hum of activity below. I make my way downstairs, my footsteps light on the wooden stairs.
She’s at the counter, her back to me as she kneads dough with practiced ease. Her sleeves are rolled up, revealing arms that are strong despite their age. She doesn’t turn as I enter, but I
