By the time I finish my bath, the windows have turned dark. The world outside is quiet, muffled by nightfall. Even the wind sounds different now—gentler, like it's tired from the day's work.
Warm steam follows me out of the bathroom, trailing in lazy wisps. My hair's damp, clinging to my forehead, and my skin still hums from the heat. After months of freezing showers back at my place, it feels unreal to have soaked in water that didn't bite. I almost forgot what it was like—to not flinch, to not rush, to just stand still and feel.
I pad barefoot down the hallway. Mellow greets me at the corner with a happy grunt, tail wagging like she's been counting the seconds. I crouch to rub her ears, and she immediately licks my cheek like she's checking if I've melted in the water.
"I survived," I whisper, and she gives me an approving snort.
