Beyond the curtain's edge, a flicker of promptness never becoming known. She eased the kettle, no more than routine, yet warmth lingers like a whisper against the tiles - a story repeated in the steam she never spoke of.
In the pale dawn hours before the rest awoke, his hand brushed the canvas of day-to-day life, channeling invisible forces to juggle momentary fragments into neat forgettable order - miracles cloaked in ordinary dust.
Every Sunday, she kneads the dough, quiet revolutions in her kitchen. Each loaf rises, not alone but with borrowed hope, unseen light setting shadows to dance - a communion yet uninvited.
He stood by the bus stop, a silhouette against morning chaos. Miraculously, the bus arrives, just for him, though the driver never sees the whispered pact. Nothing more than a flick of wish cast into the intangible ether.