The kitchen hummed with the gentle rhythm of slow music drifting from a small speaker on the counter, its mellow notes weaving through the air as Kafka stood over the stove, stirring a pot of pasta with a practiced ease.
The rich, savory aroma of garlic, herbs, and simmering tomato sauce filled the room, curling upward in fragrant tendrils that promised a meal crafted with care.
His movements were flawless effortless, almost second nature—as he tossed the pasta in the pan, a sprinkle of fresh basil here, a dash of olive oil there, each action seamless and precise. The kitchen glowed with warmth, the pleasant smell wrapping around him like a comforting embrace, and for a moment, he lost himself in the simple joy of cooking, the clink of utensils and the bubbling sauce grounding him in the present.
But his mind wandered, drifting beyond the steam and the music to a single, nagging comment that Evangeline had made after that unforgettable night with Nina.
