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The morning began, as it always did, with the low hum of the ventilation system and the soft click of the thermostat resetting itself at exactly 6:00 AM. I lay there for a moment, listening to the familiar rhythm of the house waking up around me—the creak of the floorboards settling, the distant rumble of a delivery truck somewhere down the block, the first tentative chirps of birds that had made a home in the eaves. It was a Tuesday, though it could have been any day really; the days had begun to blur together in a way that felt both comforting and unsettling, like a river that carries you along without ever asking where you want to go. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and felt the cold hardwood against my feet, a small shock that helped anchor me to the present moment. The bedroom was still dim, the curtains doing their job of keeping the world at bay for just a little longer. On the nightstand sat a half-empty glass of water and a book I had been meaning to finish for three weeks now, its bookmark stuck stubbornly at page 147. I reached for the glass, took a long drink, and set it back down with a soft clink. Then I stood up, stretched until my shoulders popped, and made my way toward the kitchen. The hallway was narrow, lined with photographs that I had stopped really seeing years ago—family vacations, old friends, moments frozen in time that now felt like they belonged to someone else entirely. I paused at one of them, a picture of a group of us at the beach, all squinting into the sun, arms draped over shoulders, laughing at something I could no longer remember. I traced the edge of the frame with my finger, then continued on. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee from yesterday, a ghost of a scent that clung to the walls. I filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and turned the burner to high. While I waited for the water to boil, I opened the refrigerator and stared into it, not really looking for anything in particular, just going through the motions. There were eggs, some wilted spinach, a jar of mustard that had been there since before I moved in, and a single lemon that had seen better days. I closed the door and leaned against the counter, crossing my arms. The kettle began to whistle, a high-pitched note that cut through the quiet. I poured the water over a tea bag and watched the color bleed into the cup, dark and steady. Outside the window, the sky was a pale gray, the kind of overcast that made everything look softer, less defined. A woman walked past with a small dog on a leash, and I watched them until they disappeared around the corner. I took my tea to the small table by the window and sat down. The chair wobbled slightly, as it always did, and I made a mental note to fix it that I knew I would never follow through on. I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and let the heat seep into my fingers. There was a time when mornings like this felt full of possibility, when the day ahead was a blank page waiting to be written. Now they felt more like a routine, a series of small actions performed on autopilot, each one leading to the next without much thought. I wondered if that was just what growing up was—the gradual replacement of wonder with habit, of spontaneity with predictability. I took a sip of tea and let the bitterness settle on my tongue. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, I thought.

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