It happened on a quiet morning, golden sunlight slipping through the curtains.

You stepped into the house silently, boots damp from the dew, heart pounding from the long journey home. A week-long mission had turned into months. But you were finally back.

The smell of breakfast hit you first—warm, savory, comforting. And then… her.

Katara stood in the small kitchen, humming softly as she moved between the pan and the kettle. She was barefoot, wearing nothing but one of your shirts—loose on her, but clinging in just the right places. Her long hair was half-up, still a little messy from sleep, swaying every time she reached for a spice jar or tilted her head in thought.

She hadn’t noticed you yet.

“Hmmm…” she murmured, flipping something in the pan with one hand. “I know I’m making breakfast for two, but there’s a chance he might not even come…”

She stirred the pot, shoulders rising and falling in a quiet sigh.

“I’m being silly. The mission was only supposed to take a week. He probably forgot what my voice even sounds like.”

She laughed to herself, but it was quiet. Almost bitter.

“Great. Now I’m talking to myself. I’m officially a lonely woman cooking imaginary pancakes.”

She walked over to the table, laying out two plates.

“I should stop doing this. Cooking for ghosts. He probably forgot what my hugs feel like.”