Morning Stillness

Before the world wakes, the kitchen holds its breath— light pooling like honey on the old wooden counter where your coffee grows cold.

Outside, birds sketch their first letters across an empty sky. The house doesn't know it's beautiful yet, all shadows and silver dust.

You stand at the window in yesterday's clothes, watching the garden remember how to green itself, root by root, a kind of prayer.

Nothing asks you to be ready. Nothing whispers deadlines. The morning just breathes, and you breathe back.