The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon and wood polish, a warm hush settling over the small house in the late afternoon. Light poured through the narrow kitchen window in sharp beams, slicing the dust particles that floated like tiny stars caught in golden rays. Toshirou, barely seven, stood frozen near the worn wooden table, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.
The leather bag rested heavily on the table, old and cracked from years of use, its stitches frayed but still holding strong. From within it came a sweet, tantalizing scent — the sharp tang of ripe apples. The aroma seemed to pull at something inside him, an ache that was deeper than hunger, but his stomach did its best to remind him.
He glanced over at Chiyo, the younger girl no older than six, in her faded yellow dress with twintails bouncing as she moved softly across the floorboards. Her humming filled the space between them — a simple, innocent melody that felt like a fragile bubble in the quiet house.
