There’s something restorative about stillness when your body demands it. Two days of sick leave, lungs struggling against both flu and asthma, had taught me the unexpected grace of moving slowly through familiar spaces.
The car engine quiets, and slowly, the noise from the outside world fades into the background. I close my eyes briefly, taking a deep breath, feeling the gentle weight of silence wrap around me.
Most days feel normal. I wake up, brush my teeth, stretch in silence. The air’s usually still, and so am I—not rushing toward the day, not avoiding it either.
Sunday. There should be sun in Sunday—it’s right there in the name. But today arrived with rain instead, the kind that settles in your chest when words hang in the air without clear meaning.