The kitchen before was warm and close, the windows sealed, air still above the tile. The door creaked open into a brighter space—cooler, aired-out, quiet. The floors were wide planks of pale wood, brushed clean, with a faint give beneath bare feet. The windows here were open. Outside, leaves moved just enough to stir the gauzy curtain hems, and the scent that entered was green, sharp, slightly bitter, edged with the tang of crushed stems.

On the counter, a shallow stone bowl held uneven citrus peels and torn stalks, half-wrapped in linen. A bundle of clipped herbs sat near the sink, damp from rinsing, their scent rising faintly from the steel basin. You exhale through your nose and feel the weight leave your shoulders. Your mouth tastes faintly clean, like you’ve just brushed your teeth.