The kettle hissed softly in Jun's room—just enough to warm, not to fill.
He'd woken before sunrise again, but this morning felt different. No fog. No confusion. Just a kind of intentional stillness.
He set the water to cool slightly and placed a small plate on the mat beside him: a boiled egg, a mound of seasoned rice, and two slices of fermented pickles he'd saved from last week's market.
He ate slowly, eyes unfocused, letting the warmth gather beneath his ribs.
This was not indulgence.
It was grounding.
The rice still carried the scent of the pot lid—a faint nuttiness from being reheated slowly. The pickles were sharper today. Almost sour. But still familiar. Still earned.
He let the flavors settle in his mouth before swallowing, chewing without urgency. The quiet outside his window carried sparrows, then footsteps. Then nothing.
When the plate was clean, he folded the cloth from yesterday. Carefully. But not in the same way.
