The kitchen feels louder than it has in weeks, and the sound is almost jarring after so many nights spent underground listening to stone hum and ancient pressure breathe beneath our feet, because now there is the scrape of chairs against tile and the clang of pans and the steady murmur of warriors arguing about patrol rotations as if nothing in the world had nearly split open beneath them.
Steam curls from oversized pots at the stove while someone laughs too loudly near the doorway, and the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread fills the room with a warmth that feels stubbornly ordinary, and I stand just inside the threshold for a moment longer than necessary because normalcy feels fragile and precious all at once.
“The tremors stopped at dawn,” one of the younger warriors says loudly as
