Swarna's POV
Kaha's still sitting on the floor like a quiet little burrito. Kanaka's taken up post beside her, tail brushing her knee with that ridiculous sense of feline loyalty.
I'm halfway through wiping a spoon when the hallway creaks.
Footsteps.
I glance toward the kitchen entrance.
Doorway shadows shift.
Here we go.
My mom steps in.
Hair in a bun, kurta wrinkled, eyes narrowed like she woke up with questions and needed a suspect.
She stops mid-step when she sees us.
Me, standing near the stove.
Kaha, on the floor. Wrapped in a blanket. Pale but… here.
Alive. Present.
Her expression falters.
Not quite surprise. Not quite relief.
Something heavier.
"Good morning," I say, like this isn't the most awkward freeze-frame ever.
She stares for another beat before saying, "You're eating here?"
Kaha tenses beside the fridge. I see it. The way her shoulders pull in, like she's trying to shrink inside the blanket.
"Yes," I say before she can respond. "I made breakfast. She liked it."
That earns me a long, suspicious stare.
My mother folds her arms. "Did she speak to you?"
I inhale. Slow.
"Kaha's right here," I say. "Maybe ask her."
Mom looks at her, unsure. Like she's walking a tightrope between pride and habit.
"I didn't mean to be rude," she says, a little stiff. "I was just surprised."
Kaha doesn't speak. Just nods.
A silent, tiny nod.
But I see my mom's eyes soften—just a little.
She takes a step forward, then stops again.
"She looks cold," she mutters. "That blanket's thin."
"She's fine," I say, gently.
"Hmm." Another pause. Then: "There's chai on the stove if you want."
She turns to leave. But halfway out, she adds, without looking back:
"I'll put fresh sheets in the room. Just in case someone wants to rest properly."
And then she's gone.
Kaha exhales.
Like she's been holding her breath the whole time.
So have I.
I kneel beside her, elbows on my knees.
"She doesn't hate you," I say softly. "She just doesn't know how to show anything without it sounding like a complaint."
Kaha stares at her fingers.
Then, to my absolute shock, she murmurs, "She looked like my aunt. The way she stood."
I blink.
That's the most she's ever said at once.
"…Yeah?" I ask.
She nods again.
Then: "She was strict too. But kind. When no one was looking."
I don't press.
I just sit there beside her.
Letting silence fill in the blanks. Again.