Grandpa pours tea. The kettle hums. Steam curls into the air like white smoke. Aisha watches closely. 'Can I help?', she asks.
Grandpa nods. He hands Aisha a cloth. She scrubs until the surface gleams. Her fingers move fast, chasing dust under the rim of a cup.
She stacks plates high—top! Clatter! Crashing sound. Aisha freezes. Wide eyes. One dish lies broken near her foot.
Grandpa chuckles softly. He picks up the piece. 'It’s okay,' he says. His voice rumbles low, steady as stone.
Next, towels fold flat. She makes triangles instead. One pops open—like a startled bird! Aisha laughs, tugging its corner.
Grandma places a folded hand on Aisha’s shoulder. 'Good try,' she murmurs. Her fingers rest warm and sure.
Behind books, she finds an old album. Dust dances in sunlight as she turns pages—faces smile back at her.
Whoosh! A paper airplane flies out—tumbling through the air—landing softly on the carpet. Aisha gasps.
'Stories are for keeping,' Grandma says. She takes Aisha’s hand together theirs, guiding placement beside the row of clean cups.
Sunlight spills across everything—the table, photos, cups, even shadows turning gold. Aisha smiles. This feels like home.
