The gentle clink of porcein filled the quiet apartment as Hazel pced the tea set on the table. The steam curled zily from the cups, delicate and fragrant — hibiscus and orange peel.

  Stel sat beside their mother on the couch, her legs curled beneath her, watching the conversation unfold with quiet tension.

  Hazel sat opposite them, posture perfect, hands folded in her p. She didn’t drink the tea.

  Their mother took a small sip before setting the cup down carefully. “So,” she began, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I’ve been reading. About the virus.”

  Hazel inclined her head. “Hemotropis luxura. It’s only been in public knowledge for a few weeks, but I assume the government released the same materials you’ve seen.”

  Her mother tapped a fingernail against her cup. “They didn’t say it caused physical restructuring.”

  Hazel’s smile was faint. “They haven’t said a lot of things. There’s still a lot they’re trying to understand. The medical community is pying catch-up — I was part of the first confirmed cluster here.”

  “You… changed completely.” Her mother’s voice was steady, but her eyes searched Hazel’s face, trying to match her daughter’s memory with the person across from her. “Voice, body, even your bone structure—”

  “Genetic reconfiguration at a chromosomal level,” Hazel said calmly. “It overrides existing sex characteristics, even neural wiring to a point. I remember who I was, but the virus… it builds a new tempte on top of that, one designed to attract and thrive.”

  Her mother blinked, startled by the frankness. “You say that like you’re expining someone else.”

  “In a way, I am.” Hazel’s eyes were thoughtful. “The virus doesn’t just change the body. It amplifies instinct — emotional regution, perception. It’s like living in high definition all the time.”

  “And the heart rate?”

  “Five beats per minute, resting,” Hazel answered evenly. “My blood chemistry’s changed too. I don’t produce certain hormones anymore. And I can’t eat what I used to. I tried. It doesn’t stay down.”

  Her mother was silent a moment, her fingers tightening slightly around the cup.

  “But you’re not dead.”

  “No,” Hazel said with a faint smile. “I’m very much alive. Just... not human in the same way anymore.”

  The room went quiet again. Not tense, but weighted — with understanding, and the beginning of something neither of them had words for yet.

  Their mother held Hazel’s gaze for a long moment, the steam from her tea swirling gently between them. “If you can’t eat food anymore… then what do you eat?”

  Her tone wasn’t harsh, but clinical — like a researcher trying not to flinch at her own question. The silence that followed felt too quiet, stretching taut across the room.

  Hazel didn’t look away. “Blood. But not in the way stories tell it. I don’t need to hunt, not unless I’m starving. Labs are working on synthetic alternatives, and the government has blood banks under quiet expansion. It’s being managed. I’m being careful.”

  Their mother’s expression wavered.

  “I’m still me,” Hazel added softly.

  But before their mother could respond, Stel leaned forward with an exaggerated groan, dramatically colpsing into the cushions between them.

  “Okay, wow, I was not ready for this to turn into a documentary on my sister’s eternal liquid diet.” She tossed Hazel a sly grin. “If you’re gonna drink blood, at least have the decency to call it a protein shake or something.”

  Hazel arched a brow. “Would it help if I used a sports bottle?”

  “It might,” Stel said, grinning, “so long as it doesn’t have a skull logo or come with a gothic pylist.”

  Their mother exhaled — a soft, helpless sound, but it cracked the tension. She gnced between her daughters, shaking her head slightly as a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  “God help me,” she muttered. “I’m living with a vampire and a gremlin.”

  “Technically a goddess,” Hazel corrected calmly, brushing a strand of bck hair behind her ear. “But I’ll allow ‘vampire’ for now.”

  “I’m not a gremlin,” Stel said, already stealing another cookie. “I’m a sidekick. Big difference.”

  Hazel and their mother both let out soft, reluctant ughs. And just like that, the pressure in the room finally eased.

  The clink of porcein and the soft sound of running water filled the kitchen as Hazel stood at the sink, carefully washing the tea cups and dishes from breakfast.

  She moved with that same graceful precision she seemed to carry in everything now — sleeves rolled up, long bck hair tucked behind one ear, her motions silent, efficient.

  In the living room, her mother sat on the edge of the couch beside Stel, speaking in a low voice. Hazel didn’t need to strain to hear them — her senses picked up every word — but she pretended not to.

  “She’s… different,” her mother whispered, her voice ced with worry. “She’s so composed. Too composed. It doesn’t feel natural.”

  Stel, curled up in her bnket, looked toward the kitchen before gncing back at her mom. “She’s still Hazel,” she said, softly. “You just haven’t seen her ugh yet. Or get annoyed when I use all the hot water. That part didn’t go away.”

  Her mother hesitated. “But the way she looks at things. Like she’s always thinking… always watching. It’s unsettling.”

  “She’s just more careful now.” Stel’s voice dropped a little. “You don’t know how hard it’s been for her. Changing so much, losing who she was. But she tries, every day, to be the brother I remember. She didn’t ask for this.”

  Hazel finished drying the st cup and pced it gently upside down on the rack. She didn’t turn around. Not yet. She let their voices pass over her, like wind over water — felt them, but didn’t rise to them.

  “She’s trying,” Stel repeated. “And I think… she’s scared you won’t see that.”

  Their mother was silent. Then, very softly: “I see her. I’m just not sure I understand her yet.”

  Hazel turned off the tap with a quiet click. She stood still for a moment, letting the silence linger. Then, with a faint smile, she turned and walked back into the room, towel in hand.

  “More tea?” she asked. “Or do we move on to coffee?”

  Her voice was smooth and gentle — but there was warmth beneath it. An offer. A bridge.

  And her mother, after a pause, gave a small nod. “Coffee, please. If you're making it.”

  ...

  The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted into the sunlit room not long after, rich and familiar. Hazel moved with a quiet fluidity, setting the mugs down with delicate precision.

  Her mother accepted hers with a quiet “thank you,” the tension from earlier fading into the background but not entirely gone.

  Stel stood, stretching with a dramatic yawn, arms above her head and one eye still half-closed. “Alright, team,” she said brightly. “What’s the pn? I vote for something non-brooding and full of sunlight.”

  Hazel arched an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerously like a request to go outside.”

  “Yes, because you need Vitamin D, or whatever your version of it is,” Stel teased, already heading toward her room. “We should go grocery shopping, and maybe stop at the market. Mom, you’re staying for dinner, right?”

  Her mother looked slightly startled, but nodded. “If that’s alright.”

  “Of course it is,” Hazel said, brushing a hand along the back of a nearby chair before moving toward the hall. “I’ll change into something less… haunting.”

  A faint smile passed over Stel’s lips at the dry humor.

  By midday, they had all left the house — Stel in a sunny yellow top and jeans, their mother with her cardigan and list, and Hazel in her long bck coat and high-colred blouse that somehow made her look regal without trying.

  Though she walked with easy steps and soft silence, her presence always drew eyes, a subtle ripple in the air of the marketpce. People looked once, then again — unsure why, only knowing they couldn’t ignore her.

  Hazel didn’t speak much during the trip, but she carried the bags without effort and never seemed impatient. She listened, quietly alert, occasionally offering a low comment that made Stel roll her eyes or grin.

  At one point, their mother turned to her. “Do you ever get tired?”

  Hazel tilted her head thoughtfully. “Not in the way I used to.”

  They didn’t press further.

  As the afternoon wore on, it became just another day — quieter, gentler — as if the world had accepted a new rhythm and was learning to move with it.

  ...

  The house was warm, bathed in soft orange light as the sun dipped low outside. Stel flitted around the kitchen, humming off-key while setting the table, occasionally stealing bites of roasted vegetables straight from the tray.

  Hazel stood at the stove, carefully stirring a pot with one hand and holding a pan in the other. Though she didn’t eat the food herself, her movements were practiced and smooth — cooking had become something of a ritual, a bridge between her past and the present.

  Her mother watched quietly from the doorway, arms crossed. “You still remember how to cook without tasting?”

  Hazel didn’t look back, but her voice was calm. “Muscle memory’s reliable. Besides, Stel would let me know if it was terrible. Loudly.”

  “I’m a fantastic critic,” Stel said with a wink, setting down the st fork.

  Dinner was calm, the conversation flowing more easily now. Their mother told stories from work, Stel compined about cssmates, and Hazel listened, speaking when prompted — not distant, but measured, always giving the sense that she was holding a small part of herself just out of reach.

  Their mother didn’t miss it, but she let it lie.

  When the ptes were cleared, and Stel had retreated to the living room with a book in hand and a full belly, Hazel quietly stood and began gathering the dishes again. Her mother, this time, followed her into the kitchen.

  The quiet hum of the dishwasher filled the space between them. Hazel wiped down the counter in thoughtful silence, until her mother finally asked, softly:

  “Do you still dream?”

  Hazel’s hand paused, cloth still pressed to the granite surface. She didn’t turn.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Not always. But when I do, they’re… sharp. Like gss. I remember everything.”

  Her mother stepped closer, hesitating before reaching out. She gently touched Hazel’s hand — and flinched slightly at the coldness. Not from fear, but from the shock of it. A confirmation.

  “I just want to understand you,” she said, voice tight. “I feel like I’ve lost my son and… I don’t know who you are now.”

  Hazel finally turned, her amber-gold eyes calm, soft.

  “I’m still yours,” she said simply. “Even if I’ve changed.”

  There was a pause. Her mother looked up at her — searching her face for something familiar, something real.

  And after a long breath, she gave a nod, tears unshed but eyes clear.

  “I’m trying, Hazel.”

  “I know,” Hazel replied. “So am I.”

  The clock ticked quietly in the background. The night wrapped around the house in stillness. In that small kitchen, two women stood — one reborn, one still grieving — and for the first time in a while, the distance between them didn’t feel so wide.