The kettle's whistle cut through the morning air—sharp, then stifled—as Aria turned the knob. Steam curled against the tiled backsplash, ghosting over the windowpane.

From the hallway, he watched her unseen. She stood barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair pulled back in a loose tie that was already threatening to unravel. The morning light caught her silhouette, framing her against the ordinary clutter of the counter. The house held that specific, suspended hush reserved for mornings when someone is leaving—a quiet that felt heavy, waiting for the sound of a suitcase zipper or a closing door.

Her luggage sat by the front door, tidy and prepared. She had packed it the night before with a contained efficiency he recognized all too well.

He moved into the dining room and took his usual seat, the morning paper resting unopened near his elbow. A thin layer of dust clung to the windowsill outside; the monsoon was close, the air outside heavy with the promise of rain.

Without a word, Aria carried in two mugs. She placed his on the coaster beside him—ginger, no sugar—her movements practiced.

Memory had a way of superimposing itself. He looked at her and remembered how she used to hum quietly while waiting for the water to boil, back when the mugs seemed too large for her hands. Now, she moved with a quiet economy of motion that spoke of living alone, of building a life he only saw in glimpses.

"You didn't sleep well," he observed, his voice low.

She gave a small, noncommittal shrug, not meeting his eyes. "Too warm. And... too many lists in my head."

He knew that look—the set of her shoulders trying to appear relaxed, fingers curling into her sleeve. It was the armor she wore when she hadn't slept at all.

"That hasn't changed," he said, a faint smile touching his lips.

But other things had.

He saw the ghost of her at fourteen, clutching a sketchbook to her chest as if it were a shield, eyes darting away when asked too many questions. He remembered the day she refused to go to her portfolio review—how she had sat rigid in the car until her mother finally gave up, and they had driven home in a car thick with unspoken disappointment. Not angry—just waiting. They were always waiting for Aria to find her words.

She always found them. Eventually.

Years later, when she had held out the acceptance letter from the Netherlands—fingers white-knuckled around the paper—he had seen that same quiet steel in her spine.

"I want to switch. I want to study stories. The way they're told. The way they're heard."

It had surprised him then. Not the desire for something different, but the readiness to claim it aloud. She wanted to speak to the world—not loudly, but clearly. In her own way.

Now, sitting across from him with that course behind her, he saw the subtle shift in her posture. She was no longer bracing for impact.

Aria sipped her tea, her gaze fixed on the window where the sky was turning a bruised purple. With deliberate calm, she asked, "You're both coming later this year, right?"

He looked at her over the rim of his glasses. She didn't meet his eyes, but he heard the hope tucked under her tone like a folded letter.

The question lingered—light on the surface, weighted underneath. She didn't just expect them. She wanted them there.

"We will," he assured her. "When the weather turns colder. Before the year ends."

She nodded, letting that be enough.

The thought of the boy—Reyhaan—crossed his mind. He considered asking, perhaps just a small inquiry to gauge her reaction. She hadn't said much over the calls. Only that he was kind. That he listened. That he made her laugh without trying to.

But he remembered the evening her mother had shown him Aria's phone, pointing out the wallpaper she had forgotten to change. A still from a live concert—stage light catching a silhouette in a way that suggested admiration, or perhaps something more.

He didn't ask then, and he didn't ask now.

Some questions could wait. Some answers needed time to unfold without being tugged at by a father's curiosity.

Aria stood, breaking the tableau, and carried their mugs to the sink.

Outside, a car horn sounded once, then again. The driver was early.

Her mother appeared from the hallway, wiping her hands on a soft kitchen towel. She wrapped Aria in a firm embrace, holding on a beat longer than usual.

"Call when you land," she whispered into her daughter's hair. "Eat something warm when you get back to your apartment."

"I will," Aria promised, her voice muffled, not pulling away first.

Together, they walked her to the door.

He carried her bag down the steps, the weight of it a final, tangible act of care. Aria glanced back one last time before ducking into the car. Her mother stood just behind him, hand resting lightly on his arm.

"Take care of her," he murmured to the driver, more habit than instruction.

The car pulled away, tires crunching softly on the gravel, disappearing down the street.

Beside him, his wife stayed quiet for a long moment, watching the empty road. Then she said, softly, "We should go before winter's deep. She'll want to show us everything when it's still a little new."

He nodded, turning back toward the house. "Yes. We'll see it how she sees it. This time."

And maybe then, they would meet the boy who made her laugh without trying.

Inside, the kitchen was still. The cooling kettle gave a faint metallic click—a sound he would forget in time, but for now, it rang clear in the quiet she had left behind.