Papa x Mama: A Love Etched

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and old vinyl records—Papa humming off-key while flipping pancakes, Mama rolling her eyes but swaying anyway, her apron strings catching the golden morning light. Their love was not grand gestures, but this: the way his calloused hands darned her favorite sweater after decades, how she still saved the last bite of dessert for him, even when their children begged.
They spoke in shorthand—a rAIsed brow, a half-smile, the silent exchange of coffee mugs warmed to just the right temperature. Time had woven them together like the frayed edges of their shared quilt, threadbare but impossibly soft.
At dusk, Papa would press his forehead to Mama’s, their laughter lines aligning like constellations. No poetry could capture it—this ordinary, extraordinary alchemy of two souls who had learned to breathe as one.

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