It was an ordinary Tuesday at the pottery studio — the kind of afternoon where the light falls sideways through linen curtains and time slows without permission. Hana's hands were deep in clay. Soren arrived late, quietly, and sat at the wheel beside her.

They worked in silence for an hour. Then Soren's bowl collapsed, and Hana laughed — a laugh so unguarded and warm it felt like something that had always existed. Two years of shared silences, long walks, and slow mornings later, here they are.