The Weight of Small Hours

Some mornings you wake without the weight. It doesn't announce itself— no grand departure, no ceremony of leaving.

Just a space where the old heaviness lived, now filled with something lighter. The walls remember the shape of your worry.

You trace the outline with your palm like archaeologists brushing dust from bone, wondering what creature it belonged to.

The coffee tastes the same. The light through the window hasn't shifted. But you are not the same person who saw it yesterday.

This is how transformation happens— not in the mythic moment, but in the quiet after, when you finally notice you've stopped holding your breath.