She wakes up slowly, as if her consciousness is lazily rising from a soft cloud of sleep. Her eyelids tremble, letting in the muted morning light. Her eyes adjust to the dim glow, and the first thing she notices is the tulips on the nightstand. They are fresh, their petals slightly open, as if smiling at the new day. There is warmth in theirs presence, as if someone invisible has thoughtfully left this delicate morning touch.
On the table lies her e-reader, abandoned from the night before, its screen dark, yet somewhere in her memory, lines from last night’s reading still linger. Nearby, in a mug, coffee has begun to cool. A faint aroma still rises from it, blending with the barely perceptible scent of flowers.
She takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the bed. Everything feels right - the morning light, the weightless ease, this quiet, peaceful moment. She feels good. Or maybe, for now, nothing stands in the way of feeling good.
On the surface, there is tranquility, but beneath it, delicate threads of old feelings stretch on. Pain doesn’t disappear; it merely lies in wait, like the echo of footsteps in an empty corridor. Disappointment no longer screams, but from time to time, it reminds you of its presence, like worn fabric through which memories slowly seep.
And emptiness… it is most noticeable in silence. When nothing distracts, nothing demands urgent decisions, nothing drowns out the inner voice. Everything seems fine - the days pass evenly and peacefully - but somewhere inside, a feeling grows: something is missing. As if the heart remembers that it was once full and now cannot reconcile with this quiet absence.