He woke at five-fifteen.
Seren was asleep.
The twins were asleep.
The penthouse was the specific quiet of a morning after something significant — not empty, just settled, the way a room settled after it had held a lot of people and had returned to itself.
He lay still for a moment.
Looked at the ceiling.
Thought about nothing in particular.
Then he got up.
-----
He made coffee.
Stood at the window.
The city below was the pre-dawn version of itself. The specific grey of London before five-thirty when it hadn't decided yet.
He stood there.
He had stood here many mornings now. Hundreds, probably. This one felt the same and entirely different simultaneously — the window the same, the city the same, the coffee the same. The specific quality of the man standing at the window different in ways he didn't have precise language for yet.
He was working on the language.
He had gotten better at working on the language.
-----
Seren appeared at five-forty.
