Morning arrived the way the house preferred it: without announcement.
Atlas woke to the sound of the river and the soft movement of Lara dressing. She kissed the corner of his mouth once, already half focused on the day, and left him to the empty side of the bed. The sheets still held her warmth.
He lay there a moment longer, listening to the water moving past the stone foundation below the window, then swung his legs over the edge and stood.
Downstairs the smell of coffee and toasted bread drifted up the stairs. He followed it.
Clara was at the table with the clinic ledger open and a second, thinner book beside it—the household accounts. The morning light came in through the east window and settled across the pages in a clean stripe.
She looked up when he entered, smiled the small private smile she reserved for mornings, and pushed a cup toward the empty chair.
"Lara already left for the early patients," she said. "Eli is arguing with the beans again. Sit. Eat."
