"We have rice, beans…" Isabella said slowly, the words rolling off her tongue like a melody, her eyes glossing over with the kind of nostalgia that painted her cheeks in a soft pink hue.
Cyrus blinked. "Rice?" he echoed, gently, as if tasting the word.
"Mmhmm," she hummed, scooping another spoonful of soup. "Tiny white grains. Fluffy when steamed. They soak up sauces like a dream. You can pair them with anything—vegetables, stews, even beans."
Cyrus tilted his head, visibly trying to imagine it. "So… it's like the grain here? That dry one?"
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "No, not that nonsense you people call food. Real rice is tender, warm, comforting. It smells like home. Especially when it's cooked in coconut milk with just a hint of garlic. You'd cry if you tasted it."
"Cry?" Cyrus chuckled softly, utterly enchanted. "Over food?"
