The morning air is fresh as I slide the glass door open—a soft, deliberate motion, the track whispering beneath the frame.
It hits my face then. Cold. Sharp. The kind of cold that doesn't ask permission, that slips beneath your skin before you can brace yourself.
My hair is a disaster—tangled from sleep, falling across my forehead in ways I can't be bothered to fix. My eyes are still heavy, still caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, the edges of my vision soft and unfocused.
I run a hand through my hair. A useless gesture. It falls right back.
I blink.
Stare at the garden.
The grass stretches out like a green sea, each blade weighed down by dew so heavy it looks like rain touched only the garden.
The white roses bow their heads—heavy too, dripping, their petals almost translucent in the gray morning light.
No sunlight today.
The sky is a sheet of pale silver, the clouds thick and low, pressing against the world.
Winter has already started.
