You wake to the sound of the kettle.

It isn’t really the sound that stirs you—it’s the smell. Tea. Strong and dark, the way Simon makes it. You know that smell. You’ve known it for years. Or—no—you’re certain you have, even if you can’t pull the thread all the way back.

The bed is warm where you’ve been, cold where he’s been gone. From the kitchen comes Hazel’s laugh—bright and high like something breaking the surface—and then Willa’s quieter voice, full of questions. Elsie will be there too, you think. Or… no. Wasn’t she just a baby?

Your mind catches, sticks, like a record with a scratch you can’t smooth out.

You push yourself upright and let your eyes wander to the framed photographs on the wall. Three little faces. Hazel with chocolate smeared across her cheeks, seven. Willa clutching a stuffed rabbit, five. Elsie with her hair in tiny pigtails, three.

Your girls.

The kettle clicks off. You hear Simon’s voice now, low and warm, something about toast, and Hazel’s giggle comes again. You let that sound pull you toward the kitchen before it can fade.

He’s leaning against the counter when you step in, mug in hand. He turns, and for the smallest breath, his face changes—relief blooming and vanishing almost too quickly to catch. It leaves an ache in your chest.

“Morning, love,” he says, kissing your temple. The brush of his lips, the weight of his hand—it’s all something you try to grip tight, because you know it will slip from you soon.

Hazel barrels into you. “Mum, we’re making toast soldiers!” she declares, pointing at the plates.

You smile, because you think you remember liking those.

Simon pulls out a chair for you. The table is a jumble of mismatched plates, butter knives left in little golden smears, bits of crust scattered like dropped thoughts. Willa is explaining—earnest and precise—that toast soldiers aren’t real soldiers. Elsie hums a song you’re sure you’ve sung before, though the words escape you.

You open your mouth to tell them how beautiful this is, how much you love them, but there’s a hollow space where the words should be. The faces in front of you are familiar, precious, and yet they shimmer like they’re under water, and you can’t quite hold them still.

Simon’s hand finds yours under the table. He squeezes, gentle but sure.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, so low only you can hear. “I’ve got you.”