Gerald woke early. Not the strained, bleary kind of early that used to grind his bones into powder, but the gentle kind—where his eyes opened on their own, no bell, no pounding headache, no stack of ledgers waiting to devour him whole. His vision adjusted to the pale half-light spilling through the high windows of his chamber.
For once, he wasn't dragging himself out of bed with the taste of ink and regret in his mouth. He lay there for a second, savoring it. Eight hours. Eight entire hours. The words felt foreign, almost obscene, in his head.
He chuckled under his breath. "I might live long enough to be a real old bastard after all."
The thought left a faint warmth in his chest, a luxury he had long denied himself. He checked the clock again. Five sharp. He had time—time to breathe, to yawn without guilt, to stretch his limbs like he wasn't already late.
