The next morning came too early.
I had barely slept. The rain had been drumming against the window all night, sometimes gently, sometimes violently, and time and again I thought I heard footsteps—on the street, in the courtyard, perhaps only in my head.
When the alarm rang, I felt as if I hadn't slept at all. The blanket was heavy on my skin, the air smelled of damp earth and cold metal.
Normal busyness prevailed at the breakfast table.
Tom almost spilled his milk, Mother admonished him with a "Slow down!", Father leafed through the newspaper while his spoon clinked in the coffee. No one noticed that I was only tearing my roll into tiny pieces, as if I needed to buy time. Half of it remained untouched on the plate in the end.
"Hurry up," Mother said, "you don't want to be late."
