The pot was still warm, resting quietly on the counter.
Inside, the cooked rice sat soft and steaming, each grain separate but gently holding the scent of water, salt, and patience. It wasn’t fancy—just simple rice—but it filled the room with a calm, familiar comfort.
A spoon dipped in slowly, lifting a small portion. Steam rose in thin threads, fading into the air as the first bite was taken.
Nothing more was needed.
