Mending the Threads

The air in the kitchen felt different. It wasn't just the scent of baking bread that usually filled the space, a comforting aroma that Dume now found too sharp, too full of happy memories. It was a quietness, a holding of breath, that had settled over the house since his mum had gone. Dume sat at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with a fingertip, the silence pressing in on him. Fen, his aunt, was across from him, her hands busy with a bowl of dough, her movements gentle and rhythmic. She hadn’t spoken much since breakfast, and Dume appreciated that. He didn't have the words for the ache in his chest, the heavy blanket of sadness that suffocated him whenever he tried to think too hard.

He remembered his mum’s laughter, a bright, tinkling sound that could chase away any shadow. He remembered the way she’d ruffle his hair, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Now, there was just this hollow echo. He’d been angry, too. Angry at the world, at the unfairness of it all, and sometimes, he’d even been angry at his mum for leaving him. That thought always made his stomach clench, and he’d quickly push it away, burying it deep inside where it wouldn't hurt so much.

Fen hummed softly, a wordless tune that seemed to weave itself into the quiet. Dume watched her, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the flour dusting her apron like a gentle snowfall. She was trying, he knew. She and Fen, his uncle, were trying to make him feel… something. But he didn’t know what to feel, or how to let himself feel it. He’d pushed them away, hadn’t he? He’d slammed doors, muttered sharp words, and retreated into the shell he’d built around himself. He’d seen the flicker of hurt in Fen’s eyes, the way Fen’s smile sometimes faltered. And he’d felt a sliver of guilt, a small, sharp thing that pricked at him even through the fog of his grief.