The morning sun flooded the high-ceilinged kitchen of the Linwood house, turning the lingering humidity into a warm, golden haze. The rich, intoxicating aroma of freshly brewed chicory coffee and sizzling salt-cured bacon filled the room, accompanied by the gentle, rhythmic scrape of a wooden spoon against a ceramic bowl.
Maya stood in the arched doorway for a long moment, watching her mother.
Elena was humming a quiet, forgotten melody from Maya’s childhood, her silver-streaked hair tied back with a soft silk ribbon. She moved around the sun-dappled kitchen with a light, unburdened grace that Maya hadn't seen in over fifteen years. On the oak center island sat a neatly arranged vase of fresh hydrangeas—brought in from the yard—and a vintage linen tablecloth laid out for breakfast.
Maya
