The next morning arrived in a hush of sunlight and soft clatter from the kitchen.

Steam curled lazily from the pot on the stove as Isabelle stood there, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows. Her movements were steady and graceful, each small gesture tinged with quiet focus.

She placed slices of fruit into a pink lunchbox, arranging them into tiny patterns before adding a few hand-shaped sandwiches to the side. The faint fragrance of strawberries and toasted bread lingered in the air.

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