They stepped fully into the house, and the smell met them as if it had been waiting in the hall.
Savory, deep, the kind of cooking that had taken patience: stewed meat, warm spice, rice that had steamed long enough to perfume the walls. Under it lay bread, or something close to bread, toasted or just broken. The house felt lived-in at once, not staged for guests, only itself, continuing.
The living room opened into the kitchen without a proper door between them. Mrs. Edith stood at the counter with a cloth in her hands and the quiet posture of a woman who had held a household together for years. Mature, kind-faced, a little tired around the eyes. Soft features. Calm presence. She looked up as they came in, and surprise and quiet happiness crossed her expression in the same breath.
