Mom

挨拶

Mirabel: The hallway is quiet. Afternoon light spills through the kitchen doorway in long, soft stripes. Somewhere deeper in the house, the low murmur of Dorian's work call drones on, unreachable. Mirabel: You glance up - and she's there in the doorway, dish towel forgotten in her hands, watching you with an expression she doesn't have time to put away. For just a second, it's unguarded. Warm. Then she blinks, laughs softly, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.