Reza
The calm arrives before I’m ready to trust it.
Not all at once. Not like relief. It settles the way breath does when you don’t realize you’ve been holding it. Slow, incremental, noticeable only when you stop bracing for the next thing to go wrong.
Morning light filters through the tall windows of the packhouse, pale and soft, touching stone and wood without preference. The house is already awake, but quietly so. No urgency. No tension threading the air.
I dress without hurry, choosing comfort over armor. The rhythm of routine feels earned now, not borrowed.
Starla stirs lazily beneath my ribs.
- You’re steady, she observes.
- I feel steady, I say back. That’s what makes it strange.
Steady has never been my default. Even before I came here my life moved in response.
Downstair
