When the child fell asleep, calm returned to the house.
She turned off the lights and stood alone in the kitchen.
All day she had lived for others — work, tasks, care.
At the sink, she felt a small hollow in her chest,
not pain, but the sense of having left herself behind.
On the shelf she noticed a small clay mini‑stove.
She placed it on the table and lit a flame.
A soft crackle, the air trembled,
and the hollow inside her regained a little warmth.
She filled a small pot with water and set it on the fire.
The metal warmed, bubbles rose,
and the steam changed the air of the kitchen:
a gentle humidity, a familiar scent.
Something inside her was quietly touched.
— Ah… this smell.
Through the steam appeared an old scene:
her mother’s kitchen, the evening light,
a simmering pot,
her mother’s face smiling behind the steam.
A time when she lived not for anyone else,
but simply as herself.
She warmed a soup and watched the steam rise.
It was no longer just steam:
it was her own time returning to her.
The warmth moved from her tongue to her chest,
and in that dry place something began to flow again.
That night she breathed deeply
for the first time in a long while.
The hollow inside her filled with the fire’s heat —
the forgotten feeling of coming back to herself.
The next morning,
the kitchen light seemed softer.
Her obligations were the same,
but a small flame remained in her chest.
At nightfall she lit the mini‑stove again.
The flame flickered, its warmth sinking deeper.
A tight thread loosened.
A tear slid down her cheek —
not sadness, but warmth returning
to a place long dry.
The tear fell slowly.
She whispered,
“…I’m home.”
The flame flickered once more,
as if receiving her words,
and sent back a gentle light
that settled deep inside her chest.