I woke before dawn, the world still heavy with silence. Honey touched my tongue, though my stomach turned uneasy. A tablet eased the ache, and I carried myself into the waking streets.

The bus came, the road hummed, and a bicycle brushed past with a fleeting warning. A car’s horn startled the air, reminding me of how fragile we are when crossing between places.

Familiar faces moved like pieces of a daily puzzle—waves, signals, laughter, quiet gestures asking for silence. A mother guided her daughter away, a colleague told another of my return, and still, I simply kept walking, fist-bumps and greetings marking the spaces in between.

Work began with a box for papers, coins for lunch, and a brush of conflict that I softened with patience. Conversations stretched between care and concern—about sleepless nights, sudden illness, and the quiet strength it takes to explain yourself again and again.

The morning ended with warmth—talks of food, light smiles, the comfort of soup and macaroni, small choices grounding me in the day.

And through it all, I carried the reminder: I may wake early, stumble, or falter, but I continue to arrive—into the morning, into the work, into the quiet resilience that shapes me.