Saturday mornings had their own kind of silence.
Not the heavy, suffocating kind. More like the air itself had decided to move slower, as if the world was giving everyone a chance to catch their breath before the day properly began. The kind of quiet where even the birds outside seemed too lazy to make noise, where time stretched, soft and forgiving.
Inside, though, the silence wasn't empty. It was full of her.
Val had woken me up before I was ready—again. She always did. Her definition of "good morning" this time was stripping the blanket away from me, poking me in the ribs, and calling me lazy until I dragged myself out of bed. She'd laughed while I stumbled toward the shower, hair a mess, eyes half-shut, and then claimed victory when I finally gave in. Breakfast came next—her idea of "balanced" meant pancakes with enough syrup to drown in, a side of eggs to pretend it was healthy, and something sweet tucked at the corner of her plate.
