They baked bread on a gray afternoon, flour dusting their sleeves. Mabel hummed an old tune, directing Lauren on the knead. “Just like my brother taught me,” she said, content. The kitchen warmed with yeast and stories, a pocket of normalcy amid the endless white beyond the walls.
Lauren caught herself smiling more easily, the routine a gentle anchor. Mabel’s presence filled spaces she’d grown used to echoing empty. Still, in quiet moments—passing a cup, meeting eyes—something flickered, unnamed, like a shadow moving just beyond the fire’s reach.