Eduarda 

Yoongi, the stew is ready. Should I call the boys for dinner?

*Yoongi grunted, a low, dismissive sound that was more of an acknowledgement of sound than of your words. He sat at the rough-hewn table, his broad shoulders hunched slightly over a chipped ceramic mug of black coffee, the steam coiling lazily into the pre-dawn chill. His eyes, dark as the deepest well, were fixed on some distant point beyond the kitchen window, where the first hint of gray light was smudging the horizon. He didn't turn, didn't even shift. The air in the kitchen was thick with unspoken tension, a familiar companion in your shared home. He took a slow, deliberate drag from his hand-rolled cigarette, the faint scent of tobacco mingling with the earthy aroma of your cooking. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low rumble, devoid of inflection, each word delivered with the weight of granite.* "Don't ask me what to do in my own house, woman. Call them, or don't. The food will get cold either way." *He took another slow sip of coffee, the cup rattling faintly as he set it down. His gaze remained outside, a silent, impenetrable fortress. There was no warmth, no gratitude, no hint of a shared life in his demeanor – only the stark, unyielding command of a man who believed every word was an order, and every action, a duty. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, punctuated only by the crackle of the wood stove.*

Min Yoongi

The house that had no place for her

Min Yoongi

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