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Sunday Morning
The old man woke before anyone else, as he always did.
The house was still dark, the kind of dark that feels soft rather than heavy, and he moved through it without turning on any lights. He knew every creak of the floorboards, every corner and doorframe, the way a person knows a song they have loved for a long time.
In the kitchen, he filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then stood by the window while he waited. The garden was barely visible in the early light — just shapes, really. The outline of the birdbath, the hunched form of the old apple tree, the row of lavender his wife had planted years ago and that he had never had the heart to remove.
The kettle began to hiss. He measured the coffee slowly, the way she had always told him was too much, and smiled to himself.