The morning sun spilled through the half-drawn curtains, warming the living room with soft, golden light. The scent of cooking rice and miso soup drifted in from the kitchen, where Ai hummed quietly as she moved between the stove and the cutting board. Her hair was tied up into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to brush against her flushed cheeks as she focused on slicing vegetables. The rhythm of her movements was gentle, familiar, like a melody that had played countless times in the background of their lives.
From the couch, I watched her—my wife, the mother of my children, the heart of our home. Even in the simplicity of morning tasks, Ai shone like sunlight through stained glass.
