Wei and Kenji

Morning light warmed the kitchen. The door stood open, thyme and earth on the breeze. Steam curled from the kettle. Alice moved quietly, slicing peaches, her white braid swaying. The soft hiss of a syringe broke the silence. Wei entered, fingers grazing the table. “Peaches… chamomile… mint?” he smiled. “You always remember.” Kenji followed, touched Alice’s arm, and nodded to the fruit. “Up early again,” he said. “Sleep okay?” Wei nodded. “I dreamed of the garden. It smelled like her.” They sat, drawn to the quiet—and to her.