IMOGEN'S POV
I watched as Josephine moved around the kitchen with an ease that belied her recent history. Her hands deftly chopped vegetables and kneaded dough, and I found myself mesmerized by the fluid grace of her movements.
"Imogen, dear, would you mind setting the table?" she called over her shoulder.
"Of course," I replied, grateful for something to do with my hands.
As I laid out plates and cutlery, the rich aroma of baking bread filled the air, making my stomach growl. I glanced at Isaac, who stood in the doorway, his eyes never leaving his mother. The tension in his shoulders was palpable.
We settled around the table, plates piled high with roasted vegetables and warm, crusty bread. Josephine beamed at us, her eyes twinkling.
"I hope you like garlic, Imogen," she said, passing me a dish. "It's my secret ingredient in almost everything."
I smiled, taking a bite. "It's delicious," I said truthfully.
