Scent of Home

Perhaps it is an uncouth question, but Amalia asks from a place of genuine curiosity, her propensity to stick her foot in her mouth once more rising to the fore. She tilts her head as Adam speaks, listening intently to his tale. Half of it does not make much sense - the idea of class and riches and royalty is relatively foreign to a girl who grew up where such things did not much matter - but her eyebrow arches in teasing amusement as he mentions growing up in a brothel, a blush again tinting golden cheeks. It is when his arms wrap around themselves that Amalia realizes her mistake. Perhaps it is Adam's nonchalance, his brazenness which set her so at ease, made her forget that people are vulnerable and talking about loss can hurt. Guilt creeps up inside her gut, and the girl turns away, still listening but not willing to look, busying herself once more with work. She nods when he speaks of an obligation to marry, though this too she does not fully understand, the idea being as foreign as the man. "I'm sorry." For his pain, for loss, for poking a wound. The conclusion is somewhat bittersweet, and Amalia wants to follow up, to ask more questions into his past, pry into the mystery of this bizarre man. Instead she bites her tongue and nods again, empathy written on her face. She has loved and lost, though not in the same way, and she knows the pain of telling that tale. Looking once more at his malnourished form, a thought occurs to the quiet baker, a way to ease at least some of his pain. "I was going to have lunch soon. Would you like to stay? There's extra." Not strictly true - leftovers are never excess here. But if there is one thing all Chandrakant women thrive at, a unifying force that runs in their blood, it is getting people to eat. amalia been talking to myself forever and how I wish I knew me better