Mornings found their shape.
Not quickly.Not perfectly.
But consistently.
Ha-rin woke before the alarm now, not because she wanted to—because staying in bed too long made her restless. She moved through the apartment in socks, quiet by habit, kettle on before she remembered to check the time.
"…You're early," I said from the table.
"…Am I," she asked, glancing at the clock. "…Huh."
She poured water, waited, then leaned against the counter while it heated.
No hurry.
Breakfast wasn't planned anymore. It assembled itself. Toast when it was there. Fruit when it wasn't. She ate what felt right and stopped when it didn't.
"…Don't look at me like that," she said once.
"I am not looking," I replied.
"…You are evaluating."
"Yes."
She sighed. "…Annoying."
But she finished her tea.
By midday, the apartment filled with small, ordinary sounds—drawers opening, a chair scraping softly, the hum of the washer. She folded laundry slower than before, more carefully, stacking things instead of tossing them.
"…These need to be easier to reach," she said, moving a pile to a lower shelf.
"That makes sense," I replied.
"…I'm not reorganizing," she added quickly. "…Just… adjusting."
"Yes."
She paused, then nodded as if that settled it.
In the afternoon, she sat by the window with a book she didn't read. Pages turned at an irregular pace. Sometimes she stopped for minutes at a time, eyes unfocused.
"…This used to make me anxious," she said.
"What," I asked.
"…Not doing anything."
"And now."
"…Now it feels like I'm doing something important," she said, surprising herself.
I didn't respond.
She didn't need one.
Evening came without ceremony. Dinner was simple. She cut vegetables while I cooked, passing things back and forth without asking. When she tired, she stepped away without apologizing.
"…I'll sit," she said.
"Yes."
She did.
Later, we watched something forgettable on the television. She commented on it once, then stopped caring. The screen flickered. Time passed.
"…This is strange," she said after a while.
"What is."
"…I used to plan days like battles," she said. "Every hour accounted for."
"And now."
"…Now they just… happen."
She considered that.
"…I don't miss the old way," she admitted.
That was new.
Night settled in. The apartment quieted again. She stood to go to her room, then stopped.
"…Tomorrow," she said, "…we don't need to do anything special."
"Yes."
"…Good."
She hesitated, then nodded to herself and went down the hall.
The lights dimmed one by one.
Nothing remarkable had happened.
And that was the point.