Rayma~
The first light of morning slipped through the cracked shutters of my cottage, scattering gold across the rough wooden table where Star and I shared breakfast. The cottage was small but alive and the light made it feel almost sacred—like the sun was blessing us for surviving another day.
Our meal was simple: slices of bread still warm from the oven, drizzled with thick golden honey from my own hives, and a pot of steaming herbal tea that filled the air with the soft scent of mint and chamomile. It wasn't much, but it carried a quiet comfort—a kind of peace only solitude can teach.
Outside, the world stirred awake. Leaves whispered against each other in the chill breeze, and somewhere in the woods, a bird gave a lazy morning call. But inside, the silence between us felt heavier than the air. It wasn't the comfortable kind of silence either—it was the kind that hummed with things unsaid.
