there's a particular magic to waking up before your alarm on a sunday, when the light is still gray and the whole house is quiet. i make my tea, step out onto the back porch in bare feet, and just listen for ten minutes — birds sorting out their morning disputes, the distant hum of a lawnmower starting up, the way the air smells like damp earth and potential. that small pocket of time is mine before the world gets any claims on it.
