The first knock came like a ripple against the fragile cocoon of Athena's sleep. She stirred but did not wake fully, her body sinking deeper into the silken embrace of the sheets.
Morning light crept in thin slats through the half-drawn curtains, pale and hesitant, as though the sun itself feared disturbing her. It painted her pillow in faint gold, touched the loose strands of her hair with fire, and pressed a promise of peace she wasn't sure she trusted.
A second knock followed, firmer this time, more insistent.
Athena groaned softly, pulling the sheet over her head for a heartbeat, tempted to surrender back into the darkness. The room was cool, filled with the hushed quiet that followed long nights of worry, and her body longed for one more stolen hour of rest.
But the knock returned, polite yet unyielding, the rhythm of small hands against heavy wood.
