The morning air is cold against my skin.
Not the sharp, biting cold of winter. This is softer. Quieter. The kind that settles into your bones slowly, patient enough to stay there.
I stand alone in the garden.
The world around me is still waking up.
Dew clings to the grass beneath my feet, catching the pale morning light. White roses line the stone path, their petals heavy with moisture, trembling gently in the breeze.
I lift my gaze to the sky.
Today, the weather is good.
The coffee cup is warm in my hand.
It's the only warmth in this whole garden. I take a slow, deliberate sip. The bitterness spreads across my tongue—familiar, grounding, real—before I swallow and feel it settle somewhere deep in my chest.
My eyes linger on the white blooms.
They sway in the morning air, slow and graceful, like they're dancing to music only they can hear. Dew drips from their petals, falling soundlessly into the earth one drop at a time.
I watch them fall without meaning to.
Last night...
