The kitchen was the only place in the house that still belonged to her.
Morning light slipped in through the narrow window above the sink, pale and gentle, settling on the marble countertop and the neat rows of ingredients Cami had laid out with practiced care. Eggs rested in a porcelain bowl. Rice steamed softly behind her. The kettle hummed, patient, obedient.
She hummed too.
It wasn't a song anyone knew—just a melody she carried in her chest, something soft and looping, like it had no beginning and no real end. Her voice was low, careful not to echo. The house didn't like noise unless it came from the right people.
Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing faint marks on her wrists—nothing dramatic, just the quiet proof of work. Chopping, stirring, lifting. She moved efficiently, almost elegantly, as if the kitchen were a stage and muscle memory her choreography.
For a moment, it felt peaceful.
Too peaceful.
The door slammed open.
"Are you deaf?"
Cami flinched—just barely—but the knife never slipped. Years of practice. She turned off the stove before facing the doorway.
Chae Minseo stood there in silk loungewear and irritation, hair perfectly styled despite the early hour. Her phone was already in her hand, thumb scrolling, eyes sharp and unimpressed as they swept the kitchen.
"When will breakfast be ready?" her aunt snapped.
Cami wiped her hands on a cloth and bowed slightly—not deep, not shallow. Perfectly measured.
"Five minutes," she said softly.
Minseo scoffed. "You always say that."
Cami didn't respond. She never did unless spoken to twice.
Minseo stepped closer, heels clicking against the floor like punctuation marks. "Make it quick," she continued. "And tomorrow—" she paused, finally looking up from her phone, "—I want an English breakfast. Eggs, bacon, toast. Not this bland nonsense."
Cami nodded. "Understood."
Her aunt's eyes narrowed, as if daring her to say more. When she didn't, Minseo clicked her tongue in annoyance.
"Useless if you weren't raised properly," she muttered, already turning away. "Don't mess it up."
The door swung shut behind her, the echo lingering longer than the words.
Cami exhaled only after the sound faded.
She turned back to the stove, adjusted the flame, and resumed humming—quieter now, but steadier. The melody didn't break. It never did.
From down the hall came the sound of footsteps—lighter this time.
Chae Joon peeked into the kitchen, his school uniform half-buttoned, hair still a mess. "Noona," he whispered, like they were sharing a secret. "Smells good."
She smiled, small but real. "Go sit. It'll be ready soon."
He grinned and nodded, disappearing as quickly as he came.
A moment later, Chae Seul passed by without stopping, eyes glued to her tablet, slippers dragging across the floor. She didn't even glance into the kitchen.
Cami watched her go, then returned to plating the food. Neat. Warm. Presentable.
As if it were hers.
As if she belonged here.
The clock ticked above the doorway, counting down minutes she didn't own, toward a future she hadn't chosen. Somewhere far away—across oceans, boardrooms, and glass towers—her father existed. Busy. Successful. Unaware.
Cami set the plates down, wiped the counter one last time, and silenced her song.
The day had begun.