Threshold

The light catches between your eyelids— not quite morning, not quite the dark you came from. Your breath settles into the room like a bird learning the shape of its cage.

Outside, the city hums its endless song, indifferent to your small machinery of being. A cup of cold coffee on the nightstand— evidence of plans abandoned.

You are half-here, half-elsewhere, suspended in the warmth of wool and certainty. The day waits like an animal at the door, patient. Inevitable.

But not yet.

For now, there is only this: the weight of blankets, the soft percussion of your heart, the knowledge that everything changes when you decide to rise.