The kitchen glowed with the soft, golden light of late afternoon, the air rich with the scent of simmering herbs and freshly chopped vegetables. Kafka stood at the counter, a knife in hand, methodically slicing carrots, though his focus wavered.
His eyes kept drifting to the hallway, where his mother buzzed about like a hummingbird, her movements quick and brimming with nervous excitement. She was a whirlwind of energy, flitting from one corner of the house to another, checking every detail with meticulous care.
She rearranged the ornaments in living room for what Kafka was certain was the fifth time, nudged a vase on the side table a fraction of an inch, and ran a cloth over already spotless surfaces.
Her face was alight with a giddy smile, her eyes sparkling with a joy so pure it seemed to fill the entire house. It was clear she was preparing for someone whose arrival meant the world to her, someone she'd been yearning to see for far too long.
