The alarm clock rang, and for the first time in weeks, it didn't feel like a stone was pressing on my chest. No droning in my ears, no gasping for air that came too late. Just the steady beeping cutting through the gray morning. I stayed in bed, blanket up to my chin, and felt the room slowly filling with light—a pale, cautious light.
My fingers searched for the pendant under my shirt. Cold, smooth, familiar. A small circle of metal that carried more weight than it should. I closed my eyes briefly, breathed. A small Now is enough to keep going, I thought. Just that.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and toast. Of routine. Of something that reminded me of stability. Tom was already scribbling football arrows in his notebook while rhythmically tapping his foot against the chair leg. His rhythm was restless but somehow comforting—like proof that the world kept turning.
