Anne, As Softly As Dawn

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ByEarl
There is a quietness in the early morning, the only sound the far-off call of a songbird. Anne closes her eyes and sinks into it — the warmth of the mug in her hands, the shadows shifting across the boards below. With practiced grace, she pushes a strand of white hair from her face, and the rocker creaks beneath her, steady as breath.

The chair beside her sits empty, the way she always kept it — there had never been room in a life given wholly to career. The someday of quiet relaxation she’d imagined had finally arrived, slipping into her life as softly as dawn.

As she rocks, her smile carries the years at its edges — not regret, just the quiet amusement of someone who spent decades earning this exact, ordinary morning, and is finally letting herself have it.

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