Morning arrived quietly. Light slipped through the narrow window of Robert Osborn's room in soft rounds, brushing the edge of the bed and creeping across the floorboards. It was not the harsh glare of midday nor the cold blue of dawn, but something gentler—light that suggested rest rather than urgency.
Robert opened his eyes and did not immediately move. He lay there for several breaths, aware first of stillness. No sharp pain greeted him. No stiffness dragged at his limbs. His chest rose and fell evenly, each breath deep and unforced, carrying air smoothly through lungs that no longer burned.
He flexed his fingers once. They responded without protest. A faint warmth lingered beneath his skin, the aftereffect of cultivation settling fully into place. His meridians felt open, clear, like a river after debris had finally washed downstream. The exhaustion that had clung to him the night before was gone, replaced by a calm clarity that felt earned rather than given.
