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Morning arrived politely, knocking its light against the shutters until the room remembered it had windows. John woke before the city did. The house held onto the last of the night's warmth the way a hand holds another hand a blink too long.
John opened his eyes to the kind of quiet that makes doors sound polite. The little front room held yesterday's air and today's light, nothing more — no ribbon, no forgotten token, only the neat order of a place that was finally his.
He washed, tied his coat, and brewed tea because hot water persuades thoughts to stand in line. The twin stone at his chest rested cool and silent. Outside, the lane cleared its throat: a broom on cobbles, a cart with opinions, a cat auditioning for ownership.
Two quick knocks, one patient.
