Mornings in Helen’s house always began with the same sound: the distant chatter of sparrows and the faint whir of the kettle. She liked the rhythm of it, the order, the small certainties. By seven-thirty, the smell of toast and cinnamon oatmeal filled the kitchen, and the table was set just so, napkins folded into little triangles that the kids found funny.
At eight sharp, the car would pull into the driveway. Emma would burst through the door first, her backpack bouncing, her laugh echoing down the hall. Jake followed close behind, slower, clutching the stuffed elephant that was never far from his side. Helen always bent down to hug them both before taking their coats.