Morning. My eyes opened.

Through a gap in the curtains, the soft light of May found its way in. Somewhere outside, the birds of Nara were already singing. I made coffee. Steam rose in slow curls, filling the room with warmth.

An ordinary morning — or so it seemed.

But was it really ordinary?

No two mornings are ever exactly the same. Waking up, sensing the light, breathing in the scent of something warm — all of it, quietly, is a small miracle stacked upon another.