"Should we try again?" she asked softly, keeping her gaze fixed on the scene before her. Her voice was low, almost swallowed by the crisp air, and she deliberately avoided his eyes.
Elijah's fingers rested lightly on hers, warm against her gloves, but there was a subtle hesitation in the way he lingered. His posture remained upright, casual almost, but the stiffness at his shoulders betrayed the careful calm in his voice. "Let's talk about it later," he said quickly, too light, too practiced, as if the words themselves were rehearsed.
She nodded, unsure if she believed him, yet content to lean into the small comfort of his presence. Silence stretched between them, not awkward but weighted, filled with unspoken thoughts neither dared voice. They sat together beneath the bare sycamore, letting the cold nip at their cheeks, the children's laughter curling around them like smoke in sunlight. Eventually, they rose, folding the chill into their bodies as they walked slowly back down the curving path. Their steps fell naturally in rhythm, but the thoughts behind their eyes remained unspoken.
As they turned onto Oakmere Lane, a blonde woman passed, giving Elijah a polite, measured smile. Amara noticed the brief exchange, her gaze catching for a fraction of a second, before she turned away. He was a doctor; interactions like that were normal, nothing more. Still, the memory of the fleeting smile lingered in the corners of her mind, a shadow that refused to name itself.
Back home, warmth welcomed her like a soft blanket. Cinnamon and old books mingled in the air, alongside the faint aroma of roasting duck from the previous night. Elijah moved toward the den, settling with his newspaper and glasses perched low on his nose, while Amara drifted toward the kitchen, humming along with the soft jazz crackling from the record player.
She decided to make lemon scones, one of Elijah's favorites. Kneeling in front of the counter, she reached for the parchment paper, but her eyes were caught by a photograph propped against the wall. Six summers ago. The lake. She wore a yellow sundress, wide-brimmed sunglasses sliding slightly on her nose as she laughed, unselfconscious, carefree. Elijah squinted in the sunlight, his shoulders warmed by the afternoon sun, smiling like a boy unburdened by anything at all.
Amara lifted the frame, holding it to her chest. A small ache settled quietly behind her ribs. "I miss her," she whispered, fragile and uncertain. She didn't even know which version of herself she mourned: the girl in the photo, the woman she had been before the weight of life pressed down, or simply the part of her that believed in effortless happiness. She set the frame back carefully, breathing through the ache, and turned her attention back to the scones.
The dough yielded beneath her fingers, pliant and fragrant with zest and butter. She worked it slowly, methodically, grounding herself in the rhythm, the scent of lemon filling the kitchen, mingling with the aroma of softened butter and sugar. The afternoon light crept across the countertops, brushing over the gleaming surfaces, illuminating tiny flecks of flour like spilled snow.
As she shaped the scones, she thought of Elijah, of the small domestic rituals that threaded their lives together. He was reliable in ways that had once seemed mundane, now sacred. The way he poured the coffee just so, the way he remembered the precise angle to fold napkins, the soft hum of his presence beside her, a quiet companion to her own steady heartbeat.
Evening approached slowly, and the kitchen began to glow under the amber sheen of the low-hanging lights. Candles flickered faintly on the table, throwing shadows that danced across the countertops. She set the dishes with care, placing each slice of roasted duck, each sliver of buttered green beans, in its place. The cornbread casserole steamed softly, the surface golden and warm, while the scones rested nearby, their sweet, citrus scent curling through the room.
The back door clicked, and Elijah entered, carrying the faint chill of the late afternoon on his sweater. He paused in the doorway for a heartbeat, eyes soft, lips lifting in that slow, familiar smile that made her chest tighten. He crossed the room silently, sliding his arms around her waist and pressing a deliberate, warm kiss to the curve of her neck.
"It smells like heaven in here," he murmured, voice low, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down her spine.
She tilted her head slightly, lips curving. "Lemon and vanilla. Scones… if you can wait ten minutes."
He let out a soft laugh and hugged her closer, settling into the domestic calm of the kitchen. The hum of the oven, the soft jazz, the faint ticking of the clock all seemed to synchronize to the rhythm of their life, unremarkable but profoundly intimate.
They sat to eat, and conversation meandered like a gentle stream: what to plant in the garden, whether the guest room needed a fresh coat of paint, if the new bakery on Briar Street was worth a visit. Hands brushed beneath the table, lingering just enough to remind them of the warmth they carried for one another. Plates clinked softly, steam rising from each carefully prepared dish, filling the air with the comforting aroma of their shared domesticity.
Between bites, they laughed quietly at old jokes, the kind that needed no explanation, and shared soft glances that carried more than words ever could. Even in the silence, the space between them hummed with connection.
When breakfast ended, Amara rose and extended her hand toward him. "Dance with me," she said, a mischievous spark lighting her eyes.
"Again?" he asked, mock reluctance in his voice.
"Yes, one of the old ones. We haven't done this in ages."
She selected a song from their early days, a jazzy, fast tune brimming with energy. The rhythm filled the living room, and Elijah surrendered with a laugh, allowing himself to be drawn into the familiar, chaotic dance. Their movements intertwined, effortless yet precise, the kind of intimacy built over years. Each step, each twirl, carried them back to moments they had almost forgotten, and yet never truly lost.
The kitchen, the house, the world beyond it all faded away, leaving only the rhythm of their hearts in tandem and the soft music of remembered joy.