Sunday began with pale light seeping through the curtains, thin as watercolor. The storm had finally passed, leaving the air clean and bright.
Hannah woke slowly, cocooned in the quiet. For the first time in months, maybe years, she didn't feel the weight of the week pressing down before it began.
She brewed coffee, the smell filling the kitchen, and stood by the window as the first sunlight touched the wet garden. Drops of rain clung to the rosebush by the gate, catching the light like glass beads.
The memory of yesterday drifted in: Emma laughing over the kettle, rain streaking the window behind her, the sound of her voice filling the house like music that didn't demand attention but somehow changed the air.
It had been so ordinary. And yet not.
Hannah sat at the table, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. She wasn't used to feeling light — not from anyone else's presence. But something about Emma had quieted the noise in her mind.
She thought about how easily they'd talked, how natural it had felt to listen and be listened to. No effort, no careful restraint. Just two people in the same room, seeing each other as they were.
It struck her then: this was what peace felt like. Not silence. Not solitude. But stillness with someone beside you.
She smiled at the thought, almost shyly, as though Emma could hear it somehow.
Outside, the church bells began to ring, distant and soft. The sound drifted through the open window, mingling with the smell of coffee and the hum of the world waking up.
Hannah took a deep breath and let herself imagine it — a future that wasn't dictated by fear or habit. A life where she didn't have to hide her joy.
For the first time in a long time, the idea didn't scare her.
The idea felt like sunlight.
She reached for her sketchbook, a habit she'd nearly forgotten. Lines began to form beneath her pencil — not perfect, not planned, but alive.
Somewhere, she thought, Emma was probably doing the same: sketching, painting, letting the morning light fall across her hands.
And that quiet connection — unseen but certain — was enough.