The car hums beneath me, a low, constant vibration that seeps through the leather seat and settles deep into my bones. I sit in the back, my body angled toward the window, my head resting against the soft leather. The city slips past in a blur of glass and steel beneath the pale morning light, buildings rising one after another as the streets slowly come to life. The streetlights still glow faintly, reluctant to surrender to the day. Above them, the sky is washed in soft shades of pearl and gold.
My hand rests loosely on my lap, my fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against my thigh. The motion is unconscious, automatic—a nervous habit I've picked up over the past few weeks. As if, somehow, the steady tapping could make sense of everything.
I don't know what I'm looking at.
I'm not really seeing anything.
My mind is still at the breakfast table.
