Morning returned the way it does for people who have earned it. The light came steady, not sharp, brushing across the floorboards as if testing the temperature before it committed to being day.
It moved from the rug to the wall in a slow sweep, a kind of quiet invitation to wake without rushing.
Ethan stirred first. He didn't sit up fast; he blinked, felt the room breathing in its usual rhythm, and knew that he had slept like someone who had set their work down cleanly.
A few days passed that way, each one folded neatly into the next. Drills tightened. Meals landed on time.
Notes stayed short and useful. The trio's rhythm became the kind that doesn't announce itself anymore; it just works.
And then, almost imperceptibly, the campus began to change its face without changing its bones.
It was midterm season now. You could feel it beneath your shoes and hear it in the way people spoke, their voices carrying further than usual, sharpened by focus and trimmed of excess words.
