That evening, the house felt unusually quiet - only the soft clink of utensils against plates filled the space. He sat at the dining table, watching his mother move around the kitchen, her motions automatic but her eyes distant, as if she were still lost somewhere in that décor store.

The memory of her earlier - laughing easily with a stranger, her face lit with familiarity - refused to leave his mind. He had never seen her that open, that warm with someone she'd just met. And then, there was her. Standing beside that woman with quiet composure, her usual stillness wrapped around her like armour - except for that fleeting moment when she smiled. A small, real smile. It had unsettled him in ways he couldn't explain.

Finally, curiosity nudged at the edges of his restraint. He leaned back in his chair, voice casual, almost careless.

"Who was the lady you met today?"

His mother paused mid-motion, the ladle hovering above the bowl before she set it down gently. For a second, something unspoken passed through her expression - then she smiled, nostalgic and soft.

"Oh, her? She's an old friend from my college days," she said, amusement colouring her tone. "We studied together, shared notes, laughed through exams… we practically lived in the library back then. Time drifted us apart, but today - " she chuckled lightly, " - it felt like being pulled back into those years again."

He didn't interrupt. He just watched - the way her face softened, how her voice warmed as she spoke. It was rare to see his mother look like that, as if she'd brushed against a forgotten version of herself.

He wanted to ask more - what her name was, how they'd reconnected, what she had been like - but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way his mother seemed content keeping the memory to herself, or maybe it was because his thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.

Back to that aisle.

To the girl who always carried herself with a quiet precision, who kept every word wrapped in control. The girl who never lingered after class, who never smiled unnecessarily. And yet, today - she had. Just once. Brief, unguarded, unintentional.

It had caught him off guard enough that he'd smiled too, before realising it. The thought made him shake his head slightly, an unfamiliar amusement tugging at his lips.

He pushed his plate aside, appetite forgotten, as that single image replayed again and again - her faint smile, framed by soft light and the muted colours of the décor store.

Strange, he thought.

How something so small, so accidental, could take root so deeply.

When she stepped through the door that evening, the faint scent of lavender greeted her - mixed with the crisp smell of new cushions and the rustle of shopping bags. Her mother was already bustling about, pulling out the purchases from the décor store, her energy filling the house like sunlight after rain.

"This one will look lovely on the sofa," her mother said, lifting a cushion cover with satisfaction. "You know who the lady was I met today?" she continued, her tone bright. "One of my dearest friends from college. We used to study together, share tea breaks, and complain about professors. I hadn't seen her in years, but talking to her today - it felt like no time had passed at all."

Her mother often told stories like this - small glimpses of her past that colored their evenings. Usually, she listened with half an ear, eyes fixed on her laptop, fingers poised above the keyboard as she worked. But tonight, there was something different in her mother's voice - something softer, more alive.

She looked up, watching her mother move around the room, smoothing out a cushion, aligning patterns with absentminded precision. The way she spoke - warm, fond, almost girlish - caught her attention in a way that few things did.

Her mother's words flowed easily, recounting memories of exams, laughter, and shared secrets that belonged to another lifetime. The glow on her face was unmistakable - one that came only from the comfort of finding someone who once mattered deeply.

She didn't interrupt. Just listened.

Her notes lay forgotten beside her as her mind began to paint the picture - two young women in some sunlit courtyard, trading jokes between books, weaving friendship into ordinary moments.

It was strange, almost tender, seeing her mother like that - unguarded and nostalgic. It made her realise how little she actually knew about her mother's life before hers.

She smiled faintly, not because the story demanded it, but because the warmth in her mother's tone seemed to reach across the room. Maybe it was the lavender in the air, or maybe it was just the simple joy of seeing her happy.

Her gaze drifted toward the window, and the city lights reflected faintly in the glass. Behind her, her mother's voice continued - soft, steady, full of forgotten laughter.

What she didn't know, though, was that somewhere across the city, a boy was sitting in his kitchen, replaying the same small moment - the rare smile she had unknowingly let slip - and wondering why it lingered so vividly in his mind.

And neither of them realised that the women who had reunited that afternoon, laughing among candles and cushions, were the quiet thread unknowingly stitching their worlds closer together.