Time went by, and soon seconds turned to hours, hours to days, and days turned into months. Months slowly ticked away, chipping its way at the calendar like water eroding stones, until a year and a half passed after their mother's passing. Time seemed so cruel and ice-cold, the old cherry oak grandfather clock in the living room being a reminder of the silence that fell on the once bright, lively home. Now, a shallow crescent filled with sadness. The girls slumped around. The only time they left the house was for either college or work, then straight back home. This was the first time the sisters grew distant with one another in their lives. Time, once filled with the comfort of routines and laughter, now felt cold, cruel, and empty. There was a haunting metronome echoing in the silence that had settled over the house, a silence where voices used to dance. Now, ghosts of memories passed remained like dust falling from the ceiling. The sisters, once inseparable, now moved around like shadows of themselves. They spoke very rarely to each other and never above almost a whisper, almost like they were afraid if they spoke too loud, something would break like glass, or they would disturb the dust that clung to the memories of brighter, warmer times.
Scilla spent most of her time reading, and Aurelia hid in her room listening to music. Her AirPods rarely left her ears as she tried to fill the silence that haunted their home. Conversations were growing thinner with each passing week between Scilla and her sister. It's been like this ever since their mother's memorial. The ache of the separation between her and her sister added another layer to the mourning. Their mother's death had carved more than just a space at the dinner table; it had split the very bond they thought unbreakable. It was a foggy and wet Wednesday when something shifted quietly, like the rustle of a forgotten letter. Aurelia was coming home late from her evening shift at the bookstore, her backpack slung low, and her hoodie pulled tight against the wind. The porch light, which hadn't been turned on in weeks, was glowing faintly. That was odd. Scilla never touched the switch, at least not since Mom died.
Inside, the house smelled like something warm. Not just food comfort. She stepped out of her shoes and followed the scent to the kitchen, where Scilla stood by the stove, stirring a pot of creamy potato soup. Her face was tired, the shadows beneath her eyes darker than Aurelia remembered, but there was something softened in her expression. "I found Mom's recipe box," Scilla said, not turning around. Her voice was flat, but not cold. "She wrote little notes on the cards. Like actual conversations with herself. Each card has a pressed flower that we were named after, including mom and Grandma Rose, and Great-Grandma Lily." Aurelia paused for a moment, she hovered in the doorway, unsure if stepping in would break the moment. "You made the extra creamy one?" Scilla nodded. "She said it was her 'rainy day remedy.' It's not even raining anymore." Scilla said as she blankly stared at the soup while stirring. Silence stretched between them like the hallway that separated their rooms upstairs. But then Scilla motioned to a bowl already set on the counter.
"I made enough for both of us." Scilla said as her voice broke back into a whisper. Aurelia stepped forward slowly. She sat down, and even though she didn't say thank you out loud, her eyes did, and Scilla seemed to hear it anyway. They ate in silence, but it wasn't the kind that hurt. It was something else, something almost familiar. Like the house had remembered how to breathe. The fireplace could be heard crackling in the living room, the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway that led to the stairs to go upstairs. For a little while, the only thing dark in the house was just the dark brown oak trimming found on all the floor trims, ceiling trims, and door frames. The soup was simple: milk, heavy whipping cream, butter, basil, potatoes, bacon bits, sour cream, and green onion. With shredded cheese on top, but it tasted like a memory. Aurelia ate slowly, spoon by spoon, letting the warmth fill a space in her chest she hadn't realized was still so hollow. Scilla broke the quiet first. "I didn't even remember how to cook it. I had to read the card three times." She said with a sigh.
Aurelia smiled faintly. "She always said the secret was to undercook the potatoes just a smidge." "I overcooked them," Scilla replied, her eyes getting teary. "It's still good," Aurelia replied, reassuring her little sister. They sat across from each other, the low kitchen light casting soft shadows on the table. It was the same table they'd done their homework at. The same one where their mom used to sit between them, sipping tea and pretending not to read over their shoulders. That table had seen birthdays and report cards and late-night snacks. To late-night dinners, tea parties, plays, and even karaoke. Tonight, it held two bowls, a quiet truce, and the ghost of a recipe card with their mother's handwriting. For right now, that was enough. It was a steady stone to stand on while everything else was below water for the first time they could breathe and fill something other than a massive hole in their chests. "Do you remember when we were kids, Mom used to say that the kitchen was her magic kingdom, and we were her little helpers? You'd be on stool duty, stirring with all your might, and I'd sneak cookie dough for us when no one was looking. She'd hum those old songs while baking, the whole house smelling like vanilla and cinnamon. It felt like time stood still, like nothing bad could ever happen as long as we were there, laughing with flour in our hair." Aurelia asked, trying to chip away at more of the silence. "Yeah, I do it…. it just... felt safe. Like nothing bad could ever reach us there." Scilla replied softly.
"Sometimes I close my eyes and swear I can still hear her laugh echoing through the kitchen, warm and bright like sunlight on a winter morning. We didn't know it then, but those messy counters and sticky fingers were some of the best days of our lives." Aurelia replied. "Yeah," Scilla said softly, stirring her soup. "Maybe we should bake something soon? You know…. for old times' sake." Aurelia suggested, little did she know she had been holding her breath waiting for her sister's response. "I think that's a good idea, honestly, I have missed so much, especially bonding with you," Scilla replied, this time looking at her sister instead of staring at her bowl. After dinner, Scilla and Aurelia moved quietly, almost in sync, as they cleared the table and began the slow rhythm of washing dishes and wiping down counters. There wasn't much said between them, but there didn't need to be the soft clatter of plates and running water filled the space where words might have once been. Grief had made them strangers in their own home, moving past one another like forgotten memories, both caught in their own quiet storms. But tonight, something was calming. A presence. A shared moment in the quiet aftermath of a simple meal. Aurelia moved to the fireplace in the living room, gently snuffing out the dying fire, her face flickering in the glow of the last embers. Scilla tied up the trash from the kitchen, her hands moving automatically as if she'd done it this way a thousand times before. Neither said it aloud, but in that soft silence, there was a kind of healing, slow and small, but real. For a moment, the distance disappeared.