The kettle whistled softly.
A pair of worn, kind hands lifted it off the flame. Steam curled upward, fragrant with lemongrass and cardamom. Rain pattered gently on the rooftop above—a soothing rhythm, not a storm, but the kind of drizzle that made the earth breathe deeper. That kind of rain always reminded her of old songs… and of him.
She poured the tea into two cups, placing one by the window where shadows of rain danced against the panes.
> "You'll catch a cold standing like that," she said, her voice quiet but certain.
"You don't have to pretend with me."
No answer came, not right away.
A tall young figure stood just beyond the kitchen's edge, hood damp and hair dripping, staring out through the half-open shutters. His back was turned, posture still, like the world outside had him in its grip.
She moved closer, setting the cup down behind him with a soft clink.
> "You've grown quiet again," she murmured, brushing raindrops off his sleeve with a cloth.
"Did something happen at the farmlands?"
His voice came low. Strained.
> "Nothing I can explain. Not yet."
She watched his shoulders tense under the weight of something unseen. She knew this silence—it was the same kind his father once wore before going off to war.
> "Then sit," she said, gently tugging the cloth from his hand.
"You always speak clearer over tea."
He finally turned. Eyes dark with thought, but not distant. Raindrops still clung to the ends of his black hair. The light caught the angles of his face—young, serious, pale from the long road.
She smiled softly and spoke his name for the first time.
> "Come, Arslan."
The name hung in the air, soft as the drizzle. He blinked once, as if returning from someplace far.
> "I'm here," he said, and sat across from her.
The two cups steamed between them on the wooden table. The room smelled of warmth, of home, of old pages and healing herbs. Outside, the rain traced silver veins down the windowglass.
---
Beyond the Home, the City Breathed
While mother and son shared the quiet, the city of Lumisgrave glowed under rainlight.
The drizzle kissed marble towers and painted ancient trees with a fresh sheen. A cool mist settled across cobbled streets and high balconies. The scent of wet earth, jasmine petals, and roasted chestnuts curled from vendor stalls like memory.
Children danced barefoot in narrow alleys, arms outstretched, spinning like little wind spirits.
> "My boat's faster, see!" shouted one boy as his paper ship sailed ahead in a puddle.
"Yours already sank!"
> "That's cause YOU pushed it!" his friend yelled, splashing back. "You cheater!"
Laughter echoed between buildings like music.
A little girl in a yellow poncho tugged her mother's sleeve while clutching a sweet bun.
> "Mama, can we go see the King's garden after this? Please?"
> "If you finish that first," the mother replied, smiling. "And no more jumping in puddles!"
At a tea stall beneath a sagging canopy, mugs clinked and steam swirled.
> "Back in my day," chuckled Old Man Kharim, "the rain would bring fish right into the streets!"
> "And every year they get bigger, eh?" the vendor teased, pouring another cup.
Sketch artists under umbrellas scribbled furiously, inspired by the silver-dusted city before them.
> "Look at the way the bell tower glows," whispered one.
"Like it's lit from inside."
---
On the Balcony Above
High above the city, King Farhan stood alone on the ivory balcony, hands clasped behind him, his long black and white hair drifting in the breeze.
His robes rippled like banners in the mist. Below him, his kingdom sang—a lullaby of laughter, footsteps, raindrops, and clinking cups.
> "Your Majesty," came a voice behind him—an advisor, careful and composed.
"The council awaits your return."
Farhan did not turn. His eyes followed the children running across the square. A young couple huddled beneath a shared shawl. Vendors pulled their carts closer together under stretched cloths.
> "Let them laugh a while longer," he said quietly.
"These moments… these are the roots of a strong kingdom."
---
Return to the Home
Inside the modest house, the fire crackled. Arslan sat quietly, the steam from his cup curling upward into the dim air. His mother watched him carefully, reading his silence like a well-worn book.
> "Do you ever wish you hadn't gone?" she asked, her fingers folded gently.
> "No," Arslan replied, after a moment.
"But sometimes I wish I hadn't seen what I did."
Her heart pinched, but she hid it well.
> "The rain will pass," she said softly.
"And when it does, you'll be stronger than before."
He nodded, eyes lowering to the tea's surface—where the reflection of his face shimmered, ever so slightly warped by the movement of the water, like something deeper stirred just beneath it.