Sleep comes in pieces that do not quite fit together, shallow and fragmented, filled with the echo of movement and the memory of sound rather than images, and when I wake it is not because of noise but because my body refuses to stay unaware any longer. The packhouse is quieter than it should be at this hour, the kind of quiet that comes from intention rather than rest, and I lie still for a moment, counting breaths, letting my senses orient before I move, because rushing clarity after a night like that only invites mistakes.
The bond hums beneath my ribs, steady but alert, not pulling me anywhere and not soothing me back to sleep either, and that alone tells me the night has not truly ended. It feels like a held breath rather than a calm, awareness stretched thin and deliberate, as if bo
