Sunday woke without an alarm. Light pooled on the floorboards; the town sounded far away and kind. They moved through the morning like a ritual—two mugs, the blue scarf hanging over the back of a chair, the bell on the table catching a thin edge of sun.
"Nothing big," Hannah said, tying her hair back.
"Nothing big," Emma echoed, and meant it.
They walked the long loop—past the bookstore, the quiet fountain, the mural whose colors had learned to breathe with the season. A breeze tugged at the paper star tucked in the wall's tiny seam, and Emma smiled without pointing it out. Some things felt better as a shared secret you didn't need to say aloud.
At home, Hannah made soup. The good kind—the one that smelled like thyme and warmth. Emma chopped bread into indecisive cubes while Hannah moved at her steady pace, tasting, listening, adjusting salt like a conversation.
"Add this to the list," Hannah said, sliding a scribble across the counter.
— Stand by the stove. Count ten breaths. Everything calms.
Emma tucked it into her pocket. "Doctor's orders?"
"Chef's," Hannah said, but her smile curved softer.
They ate at the small table, knees touching. Neither tried to pin the day down. That was the point of Sunday—let time stretch and not ask it to perform.
In the afternoon, the community hall's old projector behaved for once, and the early movie flickered steady on the whitewashed wall. They sat in the back, half watching, half letting the gentle hiss of film and the murmurs of neighbors lay a kind of spell. At the funny parts, Hannah laughed with her whole face. Emma wished for a camera and decided memory would have to do.
On the way home they collected three thin maple leaves and pressed them in Emma's sketchbook between two blank pages. "For later," she said.
"For always," Hannah answered.
Back in the kitchen, Hannah lifted the flour bin. The lid clicked shut again with just the slightest mischief. Emma looked at her.
"No peeking," Hannah said, perfectly deadpan.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Emma replied, and felt the promise land somewhere safe.
Evening softened the windows. They didn't turn on all the lamps—just the one by the couch, a pool of gold in a blue room. Emma wrote a short letter she didn't label, folded it small, and slid it beneath the blue tin on the top shelf. She didn't mention it. Some comforts are meant to be found by accident.
"Tomorrow we finish clothes," Hannah said, leaning back into the cushions. "Tuesday we practice the wake-up. Wednesday is for bells."
Emma nodded, then rested her head on Hannah's shoulder. "And tonight is for now."
They sat like that until the soup pot went cool and the street settled. Before bed, Hannah carried the bell to the door and set it where the light could find it in the morning.
"Practice?" she asked.
Emma rang it, a quiet, sure note.
"Perfect," Hannah said, the word soft enough to sleep on.
They turned out the lamp. The apartment held its gentle inventory—scarf, list, letters, bell. Outside, Maple Hollow exhaled. Inside, Sunday folded itself away, leaving just what they needed to carry: the sound of laughter in a dark room, the weight of a hand, the small courage of a bell that waits by a door.