Morning came without urgency.
Light eased into the apartment slowly, diffused by curtains that had not been fully opened since they came home. Outside, the city had already resumed itself. Cars moved. Voices rose and fell somewhere below. The world was functioning. Inside, everything followed a quieter rhythm, calibrated to the small body sleeping in the crib.
Zana slept deeply, her breathing steady and even, the faint sound of it carrying through the nursery like a private metronome.
Willow sat in the chair beside the crib with a mug of tea cooling between her hands. She had stopped trying to drink it while it was hot. She watched Zana's chest rise and fall, the repetition still capable of interrupting her thoughts mid-stream. Every so often, she reached out and brushed her fingers along the crib rail, grounding herself in the solidity of wood and fabric and morning.
