Ovelia's POV
The moment the front door clicked shut behind Ace and the others, the house seemed to exhale, the tension in the air dissolving like sugar in warm tea. Warm, soapy water sloshed in the sink as Ann and I scrubbed the breakfast dishes, our elbows occasionally bumping in comfortable silence. Mrs. Melinda hummed a quiet folk tune beside us, her competent hands working with the ease of decades of practice as she rinsed each plate under the steady stream from the tap.
Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, catching the fragile rainbows trapped within the soap bubbles. My cloth moved in careful circles along the curve of a ceramic bowl, watching the droplets chase one another across its floral pattern. The rhythmic clink of dishes and the splash of water created a lulling rhythm, the kind of simple domestic peace I had only ever fantasized about in my stifling village days.
