Before the City Wakes

Before the city remembers itself, light falls through the kitchen window like spilled honey—amber, thick, pooling on the linoleum.

The house still dreams. Stairs creak their old familiar song. Outside, a single bird rehearses its scales, each note a bell hung in blue air.

Coffee steams. The day approaches on soft feet, asking permission to arrive, to fill the rooms with urgency and voices.

But for now—this breath, this golden hesitation, this small cathedral before the world opens its eyes.