The kettle whistled faintly—sharp, then soft again—before Aria turned the knob. Steam curled against the tiled backsplash.

He watched her from the hallway, unseen. She stood barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hair loosely tied back, a familiar silhouette in the gentle light of the window. The house was hushed in the way houses are only on mornings like this—right after decisions are made, just before someone leaves.

By the front door, her suitcase waited. Tidy. Prepared. She'd packed it last night with the same contained silence she’d kept all morning.

He walked into the dining room and sat; the paper unopened beside him. A thin layer of dust clung to the windowsill. Monsoon will be here soon.

She carried in two mugs without asking. Placed his beside him like she always did—ginger, no sugar.

He remembered how she used to hum quietly while waiting for the kettle to boil, back when the mugs were too big for her hands.

“You didn’t sleep well,” he said quietly.

She gave him a small shrug. “Too warm. And... too many lists in my head.”

He remembered that look—shoulders trying to appear relaxed, fingers curled in her sleeve. It meant she hadn’t slept at all.

He smiled faintly. “That hasn’t changed.”

But other things had.

He remembered her at fourteen, clutching a sketchbook to her chest like armor, eyes darting away when asked too many questions. The day she’d refused to go to her portfolio review. How she’d sat in the car, rigid, until her mother gave up and they all drove home in silence. Not angry—just waiting. Waiting for Aria to find her words in her own time.

She always found her words. Eventually.

And years later, when she’d held out the letter from the Netherlands—fingers tight around the paper, as if it might fly off if she hesitated too long—he had seen the same quiet steel in her.

“I want to switch. I want to study stories. The way they’re told. The way they’re heard.”

It had surprised him, not because she wanted something different, but because she was finally ready to say it aloud. That she wanted to speak to the world—not loudly, but clearly. In her own way.

Now, with that course behind her and something steadier in her stance, he could see how far she'd come.

She sipped her tea, gaze on the window. Then, with deliberate calm, she asked, “You’re both coming later this year, right?”

He looked at her. She didn’t meet his eyes, but he saw the hope tucked under her tone like folded cloth.

The question stayed with him—light on the surface, but full underneath. She wanted them to come. Not just expected it. Wanted it.

“We will,” he said. “When the weather turns colder. Before the year ends.”

She nodded. Let that be enough.

He thought of asking about the boy—Reyhaan. Not directly. Just… something small.

She hadn’t said much. Only that he was kind. That he listened. That he made her laugh without trying to.

And once, her mother had shown him a phone wallpaper Aria had forgotten to change—a still from a live concert—stage light catching his silhouette in a way that suggested something more.

He didn’t ask then either.

Some questions could wait. Some answers needed time to unfold without being tugged.

She stood, carried their mugs to the sink.

Outside, a car horn sounded once, then again.

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

“Call when you land,” she whispered into her daughter’s hair. “Eat something warm when you get back.”

“I will,” Aria said, muffled, not pulling away first.

Together, they walked her to the door.

He carried her bag down the steps. Aria glanced back one last time. Her mother stood just behind him, hand resting lightly on his arm.

“Take care of her,” he murmured to the driver.

The car pulled away slowly.

Beside him, his wife stayed quiet for a long moment. 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. “Yes. We’ll see it how she sees it. This time.”

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

The kettle clicked faintly as it cooled. A sound he’d forget in time—but only if he let himself.