
The scent of burnt butter and strong roast coffee filled the kitchen, a domestic haze that usually signaled a quiet holiday morning. Henry sat at the mahogany breakfast table, his fingers curled around a ceramic mug, watching the steam curl upward in lazy spirals. Beside him, Emma moved with a practiced rhythm, the rhythmic scrape of a spatula against the pan punctuating the silence as she whipped scrambled eggs into a fluffy yellow mass.






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