The words weren’t meant as an attack.
Just an observation.
I looked around the small room.
Two futons. A low table. A simple shelf.
"What do you think a home should be like?" I asked.
She didn’t answer right away.
"Eating together," she finally said.
"We are eating together."
"Sitting neatly."
"We are sitting."
"Not rushing."
I started to eat.
"I’m not rushing."
She watched me for a moment.
Then started eating too.
Her first bite was slow.
The room felt different this morning compared to yesterday.
Not because of the food.
Because there was someone trying to make it feel like a permanent residence.
"Can I ask a question?" she said.
"You just did."
"Do you usually eat alone, Papa?"
"Yes."
"Is it lonely?"
I shrugged.
"Practical."
She gave a small nod.
Then said in a neutral tone,
"If there are two people, maybe it doesn’t need to be so practical."
I chewed slowly.
"Maybe."
She smiled faintly.
Not wide. Not dramatic.
Just enough to show that she had tallied a minor victory.
And for the first time,
I didn’t eat straight from the pan.
After breakfast ended, I stood up and carried the plates to the kitchen.
Yuna had stood up before me.
She washed her own plate.
Her movements were neat. Measured.
I washed the pan.
Done.
I grabbed the small towel I usually used to dry my hands.
Wiped them.
Then hung it over the fridge handle.
Like always.
I turned around—
and saw Yuna staring at the towel.
Silent.