The first few days felt like waiting for something to go wrong.
I expected noise. Interruption. Disruption.
Instead, she brought… rhythm.
Not mine.
Hers.
Every morning, she woke before me.
I’d come downstairs to find her already dressed, cardigan buttoned, hair brushed, sitting at the table with a cup of tea—not coffee—staring out the window like she was watching something important happen in the trees.
“Morning,” she’d say, like the day had already been going on for hours.
She folded things I didn’t think needed folding.
She rinsed dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.
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