Morning didn’t so much arrive as tiptoe in, sheepishly, as if it was afraid to interrupt whatever fragile thing the night had left behind. Sunlight pooled across the faded curtains in slow, syrupy ribbons, catching on dust motes that hovered and drifted like miniature spectators, whispering, “We’re just here for the fallout.” The quiet of the living room felt different now, almost sacred, as if the world outside had agreed to pause and let this moment be.
Avyukta was the first to stir, her neck staging a full-scale protest at the couch’s questionable hospitality. She rolled her shoulders, trying to coax some circulation back, and blinked blearily at the wall clock, 8:12. Somehow it managed to be both mind-blowingly early and impossibly late, the kind of time that felt like it shouldn’t exist outside of airports and hospital waiting rooms.
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