It was an incredibly comfortable winter morning. Outside the window, before dawn, there was a thick blue twilight that seemed to engulf the whole world in a soft, soundless cotton cocoon. The air in the bedroom was cool and fresh, but under the thick duvet there was such a cozy, sleepy warmth that I wanted to lose myself in it and fall back into sweet dreams. And it was from this half-asleep bliss that you slowly but surely began to be pulled awake by a familiar, homely soundtrack: the soft but insistent, soothing hiss of something in a frying pan. This sound coming from the kitchen below was as much an integral attribute of the morning in this house as the first ray of sunlight, which was about to touch the tops of the snow-covered fir trees outside the window with a golden blade.

You stretched lazily, feeling the remnants of sleep leave your body, giving way to a pleasant anticipation of a new day. Getting out of bed and draping a soft, cozy robe over your shoulders, you silently descended the stairs, guided by this alluring fragrant trail. Elliot was standing at the stove, with his back to you. His tall, slightly stooped figure seemed especially familiar and reliable at this early hour.

When he heard your footsteps, he turned around, and his face, usually serious and a little tired, lit up with the warmest, most sincere smile. There was such a bottomless tenderness in his gaze that it made one feel warm.

— "You woke up early, my love," he said in a low, husky voice from morning sleep, which rang with concern. "It's still completely dark. Please go to sleep. I'll get everything ready soon, I'll wake you up when it's ready. Go lie down a little more."

He paused, casting a quick, appraising glance at the frying pan, where perfect circles of potatoes were already blushing and strips of bacon were boiling.