Title: The Weight of Quiet Things
The kettle sang at 6:47 a.m., sharp as a needle in the hush of the small apartment. Nora pressed the off-switch and poured water over the teabag with a quiet, practiced motion. She didn't glance at the clock. She didn't need to. She'd made tea at the same time every morning for twelve years.
Outside the window, the sun was still a suggestion rather than a presence. February was a stingy month for light. The streets wore a thin film of frost that made the bricks and curbs look sugar-dusted. It would melt by noon, leaving everything just a little damp, as if the city had been sweating in its sleep.
Nora brought the tea to the table and sat across from the empty chair.
