The sound of boiling tea running over from the edges of the pot and hissing against the cookstone called me back to the "actual" reality. Washing the tea cups and picking them up with one hand while I carried the tea pot with the other, I headed back towards the dining room (where my father sleeps on a sofa) and placed them on the table before I turned around and went out to fetch the rest of the breakfast from the fridge. When I returned, my father was drying his face with his towel hanging from the back of a chair. We sat silently and I didn't hear him talking to me until he raised his voice a little, asking me, "What's the matter beautiful?"