The kitchen air was thick with butter and garlic, a smell so rich it clung to Noel's clothes as he set out the plates, grounding him in a moment that felt both ordinary and precious.
His mom slid the pan toward the center, eggs still sizzling, while his father reached for the bread basket like it was a lifeline.
"Don't burn yourself," his mom warned.
"I've been reaching for bread longer than you've been alive," he countered, but he still used the tongs she nudged his way.
Noel sat down between them, the three of them close enough that their elbows brushed when they reached across for dishes.
It was ordinary, painfully ordinary—and yet rare.
He couldn't remember the last time they'd shared a meal like this without the air thick with silence.
