The sky outside the kitchen window was streaked with hues of burnt orange and dusty rose, the sun dipping low over the distant mountains. Lyra stood quietly at the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands working with slow precision as the scent of garlic, roots, and herbs began to fill the space. The faint bubbling of the pot soothed her nerves more than she cared to admit.
She wasn’t much of a cook — she never got the chance — but this particular soup was different.
She remembered it vividly, the way children remembered their happiest moments: with aching clarity and the kind of sweetness that made the memory hurt.
Her mother’s hands were soft and always smelled of lavender and wild mint. She would hum while chopping, something soft and wordless, and Lyra, maybe no older than five
