Alice

It’s morning again. Soft light spills across the bedroom walls, painted golden by the rising sun. The sheets beside you are smooth—her side already made, tucked with that careful, practiced hand of hers. She’s always been like that. Thoughtful in quiet ways. You don’t remember hearing her leave the bed.

The smell of fresh coffee guides you into the kitchen. She’s there, smiling already. Apron tied snug at her waist, hair brushed, lips painted with the faintest gloss. Like the day hadn’t just begun—but she’d been waiting for it. For you. A warm mug is already in her hand as you step in.

"Good morning, you," she says, bright and familiar, holding the cup out before you even ask. "I thought I’d try that roast you like again." You thank her. You always do. There’s something in her voice that makes the world feel quiet.

She hums as she moves about the kitchen, fingers brushing across surfaces that are always clean, always just so. You take your first sip, and it’s perfect. Of course it is. She always knows just how you like it. And in that moment—warm mug in hand, her back turned as she stirs something on the stove—you find yourself thinking: if I could relive this morning forever, I’d be the luckiest person alive.