The morning started before the sun.
Sophie stirred to the sound of rain again, not loud, not fierce—just the gentle patter that had once made her ache. But now, it was comforting. A rhythm. A reminder that life moved on, even when you didn't.
She didn't wake Jake. Just slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the old wooden floorboards, the house groaning around her like it, too, had just woken up.
The kitchen was cold. She pulled on a cardigan and stood at the stove, waiting for the kettle to sing.
The window fogged with breath and steam.
Outside, the garden shimmered in the early grey. Dew on petals. Earth drinking deep.
She made two cups of tea, knowing he'd come find her soon.
The table was cluttered with things she didn't need to put away anymore—open books, stray pens, Jake's wrench set, a jar of wildflowers that had long since dried. It was messy, but it was real. And that was all she'd ever wanted.
Sophie picked up a pen and opened her notebook.
No structure. No plans. Just a thought:
The weight doesn't leave. It just becomes easier to carry.
She closed the notebook and stared out the window again. The fog had started to lift.
Jake found her like that, chin resting on her hand, tea gone cold.
He kissed her cheek, still warm from sleep, and sat across from her without saying a word. There was a peace between them now that didn't need constant conversation. Just presence. Just showing up.
"I want to teach again," she said, eyes still on the misted world.
He smiled. "I know."
"You didn't ask how I know I'm ready."
"I don't have to."
She met his eyes then, and something in her chest softened, like a knot finally loosening after years of holding.
They spent the day doing nothing extraordinary.
He fixed the fence by the back garden. She scrubbed the floor of the shed. Lucky chased a moth around the living room until he wore himself out and slept belly-up on the couch.
Sophie made lentil soup and they ate by candlelight, not because the power was out, but because it felt right.
Because sometimes, the quiet deserved to be lit gently.
That night, Jake pulled her into a slow dance in the middle of the hallway, barefoot, the light above them flickering like it was trying to keep up.
There was no music.
Just the sound of their breathing. The creak of the floor. The world spinning softly outside.
"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmured.
"What?"
"How far we've come. And how far we've still got left."
Sophie smiled against his chest.
"We've got time," she said.
And she believed it.
Not because the ache had vanished. Not because everything was perfect.
But because she was still here.
Still choosing every day to stay soft in a world that had once left her shattered.
And that was enough.