The morning began gently,
with a message carried through care.
If it rains, close the window.
A small responsibility,
a quiet trust placed into my hands.
I woke at seven.
The house slowly came alive 
the hum of the vacuum,
the soft rhythm of routine.
Gouqizi in a cup,
matcha swirling into green calm.
Clothes folded,
Tuesday prepared in advance,
as if reaching softly into the future.
There were small slips.
Ling zhi powder falling where it shouldn’t,
hands trying to gather what scattered.
Not everything stayed in place,
but I tried.
The day shifted.
Words became sharper.
Timing misaligned.
Effort misunderstood.
I moved, but not always in the way expected.
I spoke, but not always heard the way I meant.
A drink held in my hands,
but not quite in my heart.
Something unsettled lingered 
not loud, but present.
Around me,
voices continued,
plans were made,
conversations carried on in tones
I could not always follow.
Even small things echoed 
a follower gone,
a message unseen,
a quiet space where response did not return.
And yet,
the day did not break.
I ate.
I stayed.
I observed.
I felt.
Somewhere between misunderstanding and silence,
I remained.
Not perfectly.
Not smoothly.
But still here.