Cooking with Elara

Elara wrapped the soft cotton apron around her waist, the fabric whispering against the folds of her dress like a secret. As she secured the ties, the kitchen around her seemed to pause. She began to hum—a melody that Aiden had once whispered in her ear under a blanket of stars, its notes now twirling through the air, mingling with the rising steam in a dance as old as time.

She cracked eggs with practiced ease, yolks plopping into the heated skillet. The butter hissed, filling the small kitchen with a rich aroma. Elara worked the spatula gently, the eggs folding into themselves, fluffy and inviting.

Aiden leaned against the door frame, watching her. His eyes were still rimmed with traces of otherworldly azure, remnants of his time within the painting. He drank in the normalcy of the moment, a stark contrast to the surreal existence on canvas.

"Smells good," he said, voice low and appreciative.