By the time they reached the orphanage, the sun had shifted past its peak.
The noise of the city faded behind them as the familiar wooden gates came into view. The three of them stepped inside, carrying far more than they had when they left.
A sack of rice slung over Tomas's shoulder.
Bundles of vegetables in Lyra's arms.
Cloth wraps of meat, spices, and dried goods carried by Arin.
They didn't try to be quiet.
It would've been pointless anyway.
The moment they stepped into the main hall—
Heads turned.
Children paused mid-step. Conversations slowed. A few of the younger ones simply stared.
That was… a lot of food.
Near the center of the hall, Miss Martha looked up from her work.
Her eyes moved over them once.
Then again.
Slower this time.
Taking in everything they carried.
Her brows drew together.
"…What is all this?" Miss Martha asked.
Tomas shifted the sack on his shoulder.
"…Heavy," Tomas muttered under his breath.
Lyra stepped forward slightly, placing the vegetables down carefully on the table.
Arin followed, setting the rest down beside it.
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Then—
"…Miss Martha," Arin said.
Her gaze moved to him.
Calm.
Waiting.
Arin exhaled quietly.
"This place…" he began, then paused for just a second, choosing his words more carefully.
"This orphanage has been my home," Arin said. "For a long time."
The room grew quieter.
Children who had been whispering earlier now listened without realizing it.
Arin continued, his voice steady.
"You've taken care of all of us. Made sure we had something to eat. Somewhere to stay."
A brief pause.
"I wanted to give something back before I leave."
Miss Martha didn't interrupt.
Didn't react.
She just listened.
"It's not much," Arin added. "But it should help for a while."
His gaze dropped briefly to the supplies.
"…Please accept it."
Miss Martha's eyes moved over the rice. The vegetables. The meat. The dried goods.
Then back to Arin.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then—
"…You didn't have to do this," Miss Martha said.
Her voice was quieter than usual.
But not weak.
Arin shook his head.
"I wanted to," Arin replied.
Something in her expression softened.
She nodded once.
"…Then we'll make sure it's used properly," Miss Martha said.
That was her way of accepting it.
Tomas let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"…Good," Tomas muttered. "Because my shoulder is not carrying that back."
Lyra elbowed him lightly.
"Stop complaining," Lyra said.
Then Arin spoke again.
"…Miss Martha."
She looked at him.
"I have one more request," Arin said.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Go on."
Arin hesitated just a fraction—
"…I want to cook tonight," Arin said.
That did it.
Tomas blinked.
"…You what?" Tomas said, turning toward him.
Lyra looked at Arin—
then at Tomas—
and without a word, pinched his arm.
Tomas flinched.
"—Ow!"
"Let him finish," Lyra said calmly.
Arin continued.
"I want to make something for everyone," Arin said. "Something special."
He glanced at the supplies.
"We have enough."
A brief pause.
"…If you allow it."
Miss Martha studied him.
Not just the request—
but the intention behind it.
Then she exhaled slowly.
"…Fine," Miss Martha said.
Tomas blinked again.
"…Wait, really?"
Lyra pinched him again.
"Stop reacting like that," Lyra said.
"…You pinched me twice," Tomas whispered back.
Miss Martha ignored both of them.
"You'll cook," she said, looking at Arin. "They'll help."
Her gaze flicked briefly toward Tomas and Lyra.
"Understood?"
Lyra nodded immediately.
"Yes, Miss Martha."
Tomas straightened.
"…Yes, Madam Martha."
Miss Martha turned away, already moving back toward the table.
And just like that the hall slowly came back to life.
——————-
The kitchen behind the orphanage was already warm when the three of them stepped in.
Not crowded.
Not chaotic.
Just… lived in.
This wasn't a place of discovery. It was a place of routine.
Smoke stains lined the upper walls from years of cooking. Two clay hearths sat low and steady at the center, their surfaces darkened from constant use. Iron pots rested nearby, worn but reliable. Firewood was stacked neatly along the side—cut, dried, ready.
Tomas had cooked here dozens of times.
So had Lyra.
So had Arin.
Nothing about this was new.
And yet tonight felt different.
Arin stood there for a moment longer than usual, his gaze resting not on the hearths or the pots—but somewhere far beyond them.
He had already decided.
Not just what to cook—
but what it meant.
A memory surfaced, quiet and familiar.
A different kitchen.
A different life.
The warmth of spices in the air… the slow simmer of a rich, spiced chicken curry, potatoes soft enough to break with the back of a spoon, soaked deep in flavor. And alongside it—something gentler. Sweet. Comforting. A bowl of kheer, thick with milk and rice, finished with jaggery and dry fruits.
Simple food.
But it had never felt simple.
It had felt like home.
Arin exhaled softly.
"…Let's see if I can get this right," he murmured to himself.
Then he looked up— back in the present.
Back in this kitchen.
Arin stepped forward slowly, his gaze sweeping across the space—not to understand it, but to plan around it.
"…We'll use both hearths," Arin said.
Tomas dropped the sack of rice near the wall with a heavy thud.
"…We always use both," Tomas replied. "You're not inventing anything here."
Arin ignored that.
"Rice first," Arin said calmly. "Get it going."
Tomas rolled his shoulders.
"Finally, something normal."
Lyra had already reached for the knife and vegetables.
"What else?" Lyra asked.
Arin turned toward her.
"Potatoes. Onions. Cut them evenly."
She nodded once.
"No big chunks?"
"Medium," Arin said. "They need to hold."
That was all she needed.
No confusion.
No hesitation.
They moved.
Like they always did.
Tomas crouched near the hearth, adjusting the wood with practiced ease. A spark caught quickly, the dry kindling igniting without resistance. He leaned in slightly, controlling the airflow until the flame steadied.
"Done," Tomas said, already placing the pot above it.
Water.
Rice.
Measured by instinct.
Not by instruction.
Arin glanced once.
Approved.
On the second hearth, he built his own flame—slightly stronger, more controlled. Not rushed. Not careless.
Two fires.
Two intentions.
Milk went into the first pot.
Thick.
Fresh.
It settled into stillness before the heat slowly began to wake it.
Arin added a handful of washed rice and stirred once.
"This one stays slow," Arin said, almost to himself.
Tomas glanced over.
"…Dessert first?"
Arin nodded slightly.
"It takes longer."
That was enough explanation.
The milk began to steam softly, the surface shifting as heat built from below. Arin stirred it occasionally—not constantly, just enough to keep it from catching.
Patient work.
The kind you don't rush.
Behind him, Lyra's knife moved in a steady rhythm.
Clean cuts.
Even spacing.
No wasted motion.
Tomas finished setting the rice and stepped back, dusting his hands.
"…So?" Tomas said. "What's special about this one?"
Arin didn't answer immediately.
He was already moving to the second pot.
Oil hit the heated iron.
A thin layer.
Just enough.
Then—
onions.
The sizzle was immediate, sharp and alive.
Tomas glanced over, drawn by the sound.
"…Yeah, that's familiar."
"Wait," Arin said.
Arin stirred the onions slowly, giving them the time they needed rather than forcing the process. He controlled the heat carefully, letting them soften and release their natural sweetness. Gradually, their color shifted—first turning translucent, then taking on a light golden hue, and finally deepening into a richer shade.
With it, the aroma began to change.
It grew fuller. Warmer.
That was his cue.
Arin added the spices—not in haste, not in excess, but with quiet precision. Salt first, then turmeric, followed by chili and the ground spice blend. Each ingredient found its place in the oil, settling into the base he had built.
The reaction was immediate.
The spices bloomed in the heat, releasing a layered fragrance that filled the kitchen in an instant—rich, deep, and unmistakably different from anything they usually made.
Lyra paused mid-cut, her knife hovering just slightly as she glanced over.
"…That's different," Lyra said.
Arin gave a small, knowing nod, his eyes still on the pot.
"This," he said calmly, "is where it starts."
The monster rooster meat went in next.
Marinated lightly with turmeric powder and salt.
Prepared.
The moment it hit the pot—
the sound deepened.
A sharp, heavy sizzle as the spices clung instantly, coating every surface.
Arin didn't rush it.
He let it sear.
Let the surface take color.
Let the flavor lock in.
Tomas stepped closer now, curiosity winning.
"…Okay, that's not how we usually do it."
Arin glanced at him.
"No," Arin said. "It's not."
Water came next.
Measured.
Controlled.
The pot settled into a low simmer, bubbles rising slowly through the thickening base.
"Potatoes," Arin said.
Lyra handed them over without a word.
He dropped them in.
"They cook inside the curry," Arin said.
Tomas folded his arms.
"…So they just soak everything?"
Arin shook his head slightly.
"They become it."
After that, the kitchen settled into a steady rhythm.
There was no rushing now, no unnecessary movement—just quiet focus and timing. The curry simmered gently, its surface rising and falling in slow bubbles as the flavors deepened with every passing minute. Beside it, the kheer reduced at its own pace, the milk growing thicker and richer while the rice softened within, absorbing its sweetness.
Arin moved between the two without hurry, but never idle. He adjusted the heat when needed, stirred at the right moments, and watched closely—measuring progress not by time, but by instinct.
This wasn't basic cooking anymore.
This was control.
Beyond the kitchen, the aroma began to spread.
It drifted into the halls, slipping through doorways and into open spaces. Children slowed as they passed, drawn by the unfamiliar richness of the scent. A few gathered near the entrance, peeking in with growing curiosity.
"…What is that?"
"…That's not soup."
"…Is it ready?"
Tomas noticed them first and smirked slightly, folding his arms as he leaned back.
"You've got everyone waiting," Tomas said.
Arin didn't even look up from the pot.
"They can wait."
By now, the kheer had thickened to the right consistency.
The milk had reduced into a creamy, dense texture, coating the softened grains of rice evenly. It held its form just enough to show it was ready.
Arin added the jaggery.
As it melted into the heat, the color shifted gradually—taking on a warmer, deeper tone, richer than before. He stirred slowly, making sure it dissolved completely, blending into the mixture without clumping.
"Lyra," Arin said.
She was already stepping forward.
Without needing further instruction, she added the chopped dry fruits—cashews and almonds—letting them fall into the thick surface where they slowly sank, disappearing into the sweetness.
Arin gave it one final, careful stir.
And that was it.
Done.