The evening carried a hush, the kind that wrapped itself around the house after a long day. Shadows stretched long across the walls, softened by the amber glow of a single lamp. At the low wooden table, Noel and his mother sat side by side, peeling fruit. The faint scrape of knives against rinds filled the silence, mingling with the steady tick of the wall clock and the whisper of the wind brushing against the curtains.
Juice slipped down Noel's knuckle when his grip faltered. He hissed softly, shaking his hand. His mother glanced up, her lips curving into the quiet smile that had always carried more warmth than words.
"Still rushing, hm? The fruit isn't going anywhere," she teased, sliding a perfectly carved crescent into the bowl with graceful ease.
Noel huffed a laugh, wiping his hand on a napkin. "Guess I'm just impatient." His eyes lingered on her hands—steady, practiced, unhurried—as though time bent itself to her rhythm.
