Maria's Past

The scent of brewing chamomile tea, a fragile bloom against the sharp tang of fear, filled Maria’s small kitchen. Outside, the city hummed its indifferent tune, a stark contrast to the quiet intimacy that had settled between the two women. Reka watched Maria’s hands, steady as she poured the steaming liquid into two chipped ceramic mugs, hands that had known their own share of hardship, no doubt. Maria’s eyes, when they met Reka’s, were pools of quiet understanding, a depth Reka recognized from the reflection in her own mirror on Reka’s darkest days.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Maria’s voice was a soft murmur, barely disturbing the peace. “To speak of it.”

Reka’s grip tightened on the mug, the warmth a welcome anchor. She’d spoken of Rome, of the suffocating weight of his presence, of the gnawing emptiness that had followed her departure. But she hadn’t spoken of the *why* behind Maria’s quiet strength, the unspoken empathy that had drawn Reka to her like a moth to a flickering candle.