The morning light poured through the kitchen window, spilling across the counter where Clara whisked pancake batter. The radio hummed low, a cheerful old tune she sang along to. The smell of coffee drifted through the room, blending with the sweetness of syrup on the stove.
Evan wandered in, still half-asleep, his tie hanging loose. “You’re up early,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Clara smiled. “You say that every morning.” He grinned. “And you always make it sound like a good thing.” Five years married — five years of small routines and quiet joy.