After many cloudy days, the sun has finally returned.
It spills across the garden like liquid gold, generous and warm, chasing away the last traces of last night's rain. The dew that clung to every blade of grass, every petal of the white roses, has vanished—dried by a morning that feels almost tender, warm.
I sit on the garden couch, a book resting open in my lap. The sunlight pours over my neck, my face, and the exposed skin visible beneath the loose collar of my shirt, soaking into me with quiet warmth.
I look up at the sky, raise my hand, and let the light slip through the gaps between my fingers. It looks like liquid gold. Like something you could catch if you were fast enough.
It looks beautiful.
A full sunny day. But the air is still cool—the kind of cool that warns the first snowfall isn't far away. I can feel it in my lungs when I breathe, crisp and clean beneath the warmth.
I close my eyes for a moment. Just feeling. The warmth on my face. The quiet. The stillness.
