Steam clouds the windows. A flame wavers under the bulk of a teapot slowly growing discolored from the brewing tea.
Jars of rice and pasta sit stoic behind the tea against the foggy window. The white tiles alight in a ring of orange and flickering yellow.
Cinnamon candles burn in another room, the smell wafting and drifting and dancing with the scent of a spiced green chai.
Rain patters lightly on a recently resealed roof. The faint sound of parents discussing upcoming weather reaches the small slanted kitchen.
A cold breeze blows under the door, bringing with it the smell of rain, fresh from clouds not seen for months.
Cold, stiff, paint-splattered hands rest near the candle, bathed in the warmth provided by the slow destruction of the candle.
Faces lit from below glance out through the milky window at something unseen soaked with rain.