The morning feels heavier than the ones before it, not because my body is failing me again, but because the quiet has changed texture, stretching thin and watchful in a way that tells me something has shifted while I slept. I wake before the bell, before the packhouse fully stirs, and lie still for a moment, listening to the subtle rhythms around me, the distant footfalls, the soft murmur of voices carried through stone, and the steady hum of the bond beneath my ribs that feels alert rather than anxious.
I sit up slowly, checking myself the way I always do now, breath first, balance second, intention last, and when everything answers back without protest, I allow myself a small moment of relief. The heat has not returned, but its shadow lingers, not painful, just present enough to keep me
