Maya always thought mornings in her neighborhood carried a kind of softness that couldn't be bottled. The sun rarely rushed to climb high; instead, it rose lazily, spilling pale gold onto rooftops and fluttering curtains. The air smelled faintly of fresh bread drifting from the small bakery down the lane, and somewhere, a neighbor's radio hummed old songs in half-static.
For Maya, these mornings were ritual. She'd wake at seven, not because she had to, but because the neighborhood itself seemed to open its eyes then. Her tiny apartment overlooked the community garden—a patch of green cared for by more hands than she could count. On most days, she'd slide open her balcony door, step out in her slippers, and let the quiet air greet her. She never said it aloud, but she liked to imagine the garden was waiting for her, too.
