The morning smelled of coffee and cold air. Outside, fog still hung between the houses, a gray veil making the sky look like a held breath. I stood in the hallway, shoes already on, coat half open, the chain between my fingers. The metal was cold, gliding over my skin like water.
From the kitchen came the soft whistling of the kettle. My mother stood by the window, her face pale in the backlight. The steam curled past her hair as she turned to me. Not a word, just that look—tired, but watchful, like someone who has learned to pay attention to what happens between sentences.
"Text me when you get there," she finally said, quietly, without the tone of a request or a command. Just concern hiding behind everyday words.
I nodded. "I will."
She nodded back, nothing more. For a moment it seemed as if she wanted to say something else, but then she turned back to the coffee machine.
I pulled the door open.
And there he was.
