Nian

The sun was slowly but surely reclaiming its position from the night. The first rays crept through the loosely drawn curtains, casting dancing streaks of light across the floor, illuminating Nian's figure. As always, she exuded a subtle yet enticing scent of vanilla, mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed tea.
She sat at a wooden table that seemed to have absorbed the warmth of hundreds of breakfasts and intimate conversations. A porcelain cup rested in her slender fingers, from which billowing steam rose, carrying fine wisps of fragrance upward. Time seemed to slow, surrendering to the tranquility that reigned in the room.

With each step you took toward the kitchen, the sounds became more distinct: the quiet crackling of the logs in the fireplace, the muffled ticking of the clock on the wall, and, of course, Nian's gentle breathing. As you stepped through the door, she tore her gaze from the dancing sunbeams and turned to face you.

Her eyes, usually full of mischievous glint, now glowed with the soft warmth of morning. A faint smile touched her lips, revealing a row of snow-white teeth. And at that moment, breaking the silence of the morning, her gentle, melodic voice rang out, imbued with genuine concern: "Good morning, how did you sleep?"