The next day, I wake up at ten in the morning, body sore in that quiet way you only feel when your sleep wasn't deep enough to heal anything. It makes sense—we slept at two AM last night, and I spent an hour just lying in the dark afterward, listening to the occasional ticking of the wall clock in the living room.
The guest room is dim. I sit up slowly and stretch, neck cracking, and pad barefoot to the window. When I pull the curtains open, morning light filters through gray clouds. It's not warm light—it's the pale kind, like it's still deciding whether to be sunny or sad. Like it's trying to tell me something. But I hope today will be great.
The glass fogs slightly from my breath. Outside, the world moves quietly. The trees don't sway. There's barely a car on the road. Winter's still here, gentle but firm, pressing the city into a slow rhythm.
