Dawn came soft as thread unwound from a spindle, pale and steady, stitching light through the rafters of the new house until it lay warm on the floorboards. The place still smelled faintly of fresh pitch and last night's bread. Far off, the river muttered its old story. Nearer, the ants clicked and ferried sawdust from some corner the human eyes would never fully tidy.
Arielle woke to all of it—the house that had been frames and prayers a week ago now a thing with spine and breath. She lay for a long moment between sleep and purpose, feeling the world take shape again around her: the ladder up to the loft, the hook where her ledger bag hung, the mug with the chip in its rim, and the comfortingly square weight of work waiting just beyond the threshold. Her spectacles rested on the windowsill, fogged by the house's own warm sigh. She cleaned them with the hem of her blouse, sat up, and listened to the pines gossip at the eaves.
