Moby rubbed his eyes and slowly sat up in bed. He stretched, and the aroma grew stronger, as though a gentle but insistent force were pulling him out of his dreams.
With a slight turn of his head, Moby could see through the open doorway into the kitchen, where his wife of more than ten years was tending the fire and cooking, as diligent with the housework as ever. Their two hungry children trailed after her, tugging at her skirt.
Moby's home was small, with just a living room and a bedroom, so the living room served many purposes. It was their dining room, their children's playroom, and sometimes even a makeshift study.
A family of four was bound to feel cramped in a house like this.
But there was nothing to be done about it. Land in Ankandela was expensive, and Moby had only managed to buy this little home of his own with the savings from his many years as a master tailor.
An ordinary person would never have managed to buy a home in the city within a dozen or so years.
By the time Moby had washed up and sat down at the table, his wife had finished breakfast. She brought over the pot and bowls, soothing the children as they fussed from hunger while deftly serving out the food.
The oatmeal, cooked until soft, gave off a rich aroma. His wife skillfully ladled it into one large bowl and three ordinary ones. She placed the large bowl before Moby; the ordinary bowls were for her and the children.
At the sight, guilt welled up in Moby's heart. His wife was an adult, and the two children were still growing. One bowl of oatmeal was nowhere near enough to fill their stomachs.
But his work mattered