The sun peeked through the trees, golden and warm, casting soft light across the dew-damp grass.
The village stirred slowly — roosters calling, footsteps on gravel, the sound of water sloshing into basins.
Inside the old house, the smell of brewed tea and frying yam filled the kitchen.
Mr. Dand stood over the stove, humming under his breath, flipping pieces of yam in a pan. A teapot steamed gently beside him. The table had already been set — two mugs, three plates, a quiet kind of welcome.
Mark sat at the far end, hands wrapped around a cup. His eyes rested on the glass, but he wasn't really seeing the morning beyond it.
The soft creak of the stairs caught both their attention.
Artur appeared in the doorway, his shirt slightly wrinkled, hair tousled like he hadn't slept much — or had only just fallen asleep.
But he was there.
"Morning," he said quietly.
"Morning, son," Mr. Dand replied with a smile, gesturing toward the table. "Come sit. Tea's hot."
