You stepped into the kitchen, the familiar aroma of simmering tomato sauce instantly relaxing you. There, by the stove, stood Eleanor, a picture you hadn't seen in years. Her hair, usually pulled back in a severe bun, hung loose in soft waves around her shoulders. An apron, once an object of derision, was now tied around her waist, dusted with flour. She turned, a hesitant smile gracing her lips.

"Welcome home," she said, her voice quieter than the usual crisp pronouncements that had filled the house. "Dinner's almost ready."