Olivia steps into the kitchen just before sunrise, her bare feet silent against the cool tile. She stacks her movements with the precision of a barista in a five-star café: she lifts the empty carafe and slots it under the filter basket, its metal latch clicking into place; she reaches for the mug she’s chosen—the one with the tiny chip on its rim, pale blue inside and white out, balanced on the corner of the granite island as if it were a work of art; then she eases open the stainless-steel fridge door and slides out the oat milk, its label smeared with last week’s coffee grounds. The hum of the compressor rises and falls, a steady thrum that feels almost orchestral.
The island’s edge is a perfect horizon line, and Olivia aligns the mug’s handle to its gridlike veins. She hesitates, fing
