The pantry was a treasure trove, stocked as though curated by someone who anticipated every whim of both child and adult.
Creamy peanut butter—real, thick, nutty—not the hollow, processed spread I had known.
Strawberry jam, glistening in its glass jar, waiting to be spread.
Thick slices of brioche bread, golden and soft, practically begging to be cut into perfect rectangles.
Bananas, yellow and speckled with ripeness.
Whole milk. And a tin of premium Dutch cocoa powder for the chocolate milk.
I even found a heart-shaped cookie cutter tucked on the top shelf. My lips curved into a small smile. Yannis would love that. He loved little whimsical things, little symbols of care.
As I worked, layering peanut butter and jam with meticulous care, cutting off the crusts just as he had asked, slicing bananas into neat little coins, I felt a strange, tentative joy.
For the chocolate milk, I warmed the milk slowly on the induction stove, watching steam curl upward in thin white ribbons.
I whisked in cocoa, dark and fragrant, added a touch of honey, and stirred until the surface turned silky and smooth. When I poured it into the small blue mug with the faded star pattern, something in my chest tightened.
Yannis’s favorite, I guessed. Or hoped.
Every movement felt... grounding.
Normal.
Like I could pretend—just for a few stolen minutes—that this was my life.
That I wasn’t a prisoner wrapped in silk and marble.
That the man who owned this house hadn’t spent last night standing over an open grave meant for me.
My hands didn’t shake. I noticed that with mild surprise. They were steady, practiced, almost serene. As if making a sandwich for a frightened child was enough to anchor me to reality.
But the feeling came anyway.
Eyes on me.
Not obvious. Not aggressive. Just... there. A quiet pressure at the base of my skull, the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Two pairs.
I didn’t stop what I was doing. I refused to. I focused on folding a napkin into a neat triangle—something my mother used to do, even when life felt like it was unraveling at the seams. Small details mattered to her. They made things feel kinder. Safer.
I turned once—quick, instinctive—scanning the doorway, the hallway beyond, the reflection in the dark glass of the oven.
Nothing.
Still, the sensation lingered, crawling up my spine.
I plated the sandwich, adjusted the banana slices, placed the mug just so, and lifted the tray with care. It felt heavier than it should have, weighted by expectation, by hope I didn’t dare name.
Upstairs, Yannis’s door creaked softly as I pushed it open.
He was already asleep.
Curled on his side, knees drawn up, one small hand tucked beneath his cheek. His lashes rested dark against his skin, his breathing soft, even, almost peaceful.
I exhaled, my shoulders sagging with relief.
