I wake before my alarm.
Not with a jolt. Not with dread. Just awake, like my body decided it was finished resting and didn’t bother negotiating. The room is still dim, early light barely reaching the corners, everything softened by the hour. The house hasn’t started its morning noises yet. No footsteps. No doors. Just quiet sitting heavy and expectant.
Layla is awake under my skin.
She’s unusually quiet. Alert, but contained. Not pacing. Not pressing. Just listening, the way a wolf does when it knows something important is coming but hasn’t decided how to meet it yet.
Today, she notes.
“I know,” I whisper.
I lie there longer than I need to, staring at the ceiling, breathing slow. It feels like if I move too fast, the day will snap shut around me and I’ll lose whatever fragile space s
