The woman's rough-knuckled hands hovered mid-air for a breath, unsure whether to let go of gratitude now that it had found shape. At last she stepped back, wiping palms on her apron. Lyan caught a glimpse of faded embroidery on the cloth—small sprigs of lavender, perhaps stitched years ago before war turned violet thread into a frivolous commodity. She gave him a quick nod, eyes shimmering in the sun, and turned to shepherd two barefoot children away from a precarious stack of rubble. Her voice—gentle, exhausted—floated back: "Keep it hot, yeah? Best when the crust sings."
(Your hands are trembling,) Cynthia observed, soothing warmth dancing behind her words.
He flexed his fingers on the loaf, feeling how the crust crackled like dry leaves under gentle pressure. I'm fine, he answered, though fine felt like a ragged tent patch slapped over a spear hole.
