Haruv moved quietly around his kitchen.

He took out some rice.
Some tofu.
A few vegetables.

He washed them carefully.

Chopped them slowly.

The sound of the knife against the board was steady, rhythmic — grounding.

He placed a pan on the stove and began to cook.

Oil warmed.
Vegetables sizzled.
Steam rose.

Soon, the soft aroma of fried rice filled the house.

Haruv paused for a moment, breathing it in.

A shy smile touched his lips.

I hope she’ll like this…

He packed the food neatly into Ashi’s lunch box.

Then he picked up a pen and wrote a note.

Carefully. Thoughtfully.

He slipped the note inside, closed the box, and took a breath.

Then he left his house.

Crossed the street.

Stood in front of Ashi’s door.

He pressed the doorbell once.

Placed the lunch box gently beside the door.

And walked away.

His heart beat faster than the walk required.

Ashi opened her door a moment later.

No one stood there.

Only the lunch box.

She picked it up, puzzled, and stepped inside.

Sat down on her sofa.

She noticed the paper first.

Her fingers unfolded it slowly.

Ms. Ashi,
Thank you for the meal. I hope you are well and not hurt because of those gangsters.
I’ve prepared fried rice. I hope you’ll like it.
— Haruv.

Her breath caught softly.

Her cheeks warmed.

She opened the box.

The gentle aroma of fried rice rose toward her.

And for a second, she forgot everything else.