Marie hummed softly, kneading dough with practiced ease. The kitchen was warm, filled with the comforting scent of chicken and herbs. Outside, the world was grey and indifferent, but here, in the small apartment, a familiar rhythm prevailed. She pressed flour, salt, eggs, and water together, forming noodles that would soon become her mother's favorite chicken soup. They hung like delicate Christmas tinsel around the tiny room, a spider web of love.

“Talking to yourself again?”

Aleta appeared in the doorway, her dark eyes lined in black, a nose ring glinting. She looked too old, too world-weary for her twelve years. Marie tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff, twisting into something almost eerie.

“At least I know what I’m going to say.”

Aleta stepped over, kissing Marie's hair quickly, almost distractedly. Not like a child, but like an adult with too much on her mind. She sniffed the air, a small, almost hidden grin playing on her lips.

“The soup smells good.”

“Thanks, dear. Most of it is going to Grandma’s, but I have some put aside for us, too.” Marie ladled a portion into a thermos, her movements fluid and practiced. A familiar ritual, a small act of care in a world that often felt uncaring.

Aleta shrugged into her bright red hoodie, its color a stark contrast to the muted apartment. She slipped earbuds into her ears, a fleeting glimpse of her eyes over her shoulder, and then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft, final click. Marie swallowed hard, a knot forming in her stomach.