I wake before the packhouse does, not because of noise or pain, but because my body has decided it is ready to move again, and lying still feels like ignoring a signal I have spent my life learning how to read rather than dismiss. The bond hums softly beneath my ribs, present in the way a compass needle is present, steady and directional without demanding my attention, and I take a moment to breathe through it before sitting up and letting my feet touch the cold stone floor.
Morning routines matter more than people think, especially when everything else feels uncertain, because they give shape to time instead of letting it sprawl unchecked.
I shower slowly, letting the water heat my skin until the last of sleep loosens its grip, standing there longer than strictly necessary as steam curl
