The morning sunlight spills across the garden like something poured from a vessel too full to hold it—thick, golden, almost tangible. It filters through the canopy of ancient trees, fracturing into a thousand scattered shards that dance across the grass, across my bare skin, across the trembling surface of the marble fountains. The air is still cool, carrying the memory of night, but the warmth is already pressing in, patient and unhurried, like a hand reaching through the hours toward noon.
I walk slowly, my bare feet brushing through the grass. Dew clings to my skin, cool and gentle, dampening the hem of my night suit. My hair is still tousled from sleep, uneven strands falling across my forehead, and my eyes still carry the last traces of drowsiness.
