If this had been weeks prior, months, or perhaps days, Yin would have done exactly as requested. Moved past the doorway for the door to shut, and stand there, perfectly still.

--Instead she moves inward, quietly shifts to the area used as a kitchen, and touches a well-worn cutting board. The lines are deep, jagged and frayed, and yet all it shows in its remains are a habit, long since perfected. One who cooked for the need and necessity, and would cook from the pleasure of it, given the choice. Her other hand touches the metal of the sink, and it's cool; solid and smooth.