Morning arrives slowly in Bridgett’s living room. The light comes in first — pale and careful — touching the edge of the couch. A candle warms softly beside it, the scent soft enough that it feels more remembered than present.
She stood at first, carrying her mug with her to the sink, watching the thin light settle across the counter before turning back toward the couch.
She moved quietly through the room, not rushing anything. The throw folded over the armrest slipped slightly as she sat, and for a moment she just watched the steam rise from her mug. Outside the window, February holds quiet— branches bare, sky undecided.
Nothing needs to begin yet.
The day hasn’t asked anything of her.
Her candle warmers were lit, but one had the timer set wrong. The unset warmer bothered her — not sharply, more like a low hum at the edge of her attention. The faint scent of lilac lingered anyway, soft enough that she wondered if she had ever needed that warmer on at all.
She noticed how the thought returned without invitation.
Maybe I should reset it.
I’ll forget and have to come back, she thought.
The warm air from the furnace vent blew somewhere behind her, steady and familiar. She let the thoughts finish themselves.
Nothing happened.
The room stayed as it was. The morning didn’t register the imbalance.
She took another sip of coffee and leaned back, letting her shoulders drop. The irritation thinned, then slipped away, leaving behind a small, unexpected sense of space.
She hadn’t fixed anything.
And yet, something felt easier.
She sat there longer than she meant to, watching the light shift along the floorboards. It moved slowly, almost without permission, stretching just enough to reach the corner of the rug near her feet.
The unset warmer no longer held her attention the way it had a moment ago. It existed the way most things did — quietly, without needing her involvement.
She lifted her mug again, testing the heat against her lip before taking a slow sip. The coffee had settled into that small window of perfect temperature, warm without urgency. She noticed how often she rushed through that moment, drinking before she tasted.
Today she didn’t.
Across the room, the candle shimmered slightly as the furnace clicked off. The air stilled again, and with it came a deeper quiet — the kind that only arrived when the house had fully woken but the day had not yet begun.
She shifted the throw from beneath her elbow, smoothing it once, then letting it fall where it wanted. The small motion felt unnecessary and familiar at the same time.
Outside, a car passed slowly, tires humming against the damp pavement. The sound faded quickly, leaving the room unchanged.
She realized she had been holding her shoulders slightly forward, as if bracing for something that never came. When she let them settle back, the space around her felt wider.
Nothing in the room had shifted.
But her attention had.
She watched the steam from her mug thin and disappear, the last curl dissolving into the pale morning light. It reminded her how quickly things moved on when she stopped holding onto them.
She rested her hand against the side of the couch and closed her eyes for a moment — not to meditate, not to think — just to feel the quiet of sitting without needing to adjust anything.
After a while, she stood, carrying her mug with her toward the window above the sink. The light felt different there — clearer, less filtered — settling softly against her hands as she rested them on the edge of the counter.
Outside, winter held its quiet shape. The branches looked almost silver in the pale sky, unmoving except for the smallest suggestion of wind. A neighbor’s car sat untouched along the curb, still wearing yesterday’s dusting of snow.
She didn’t look for anything in particular. She just watched.
The glass felt cool beneath her fingertips. She traced the edge of a faint smudge left from yesterday without thinking about cleaning it. For once, the urge to make the space perfect didn’t follow her.
She noticed how different the room felt from here — wider somehow, as if stepping closer to the window had given everything more air.
Behind her, the candle continued to warm steadily. The scent of lilac drifted lightly through the space, mixing with the faint warmth of coffee.
She noticed that the minor annoyance about the candle fell away, as though it belonged to someone else.
It surprised her how little it mattered from this distance.
A bird crossed the sky quickly, gone before she could decide what kind it was. She felt the brief lift that came with noticing something small and letting it pass without holding onto it.
For a moment, she wondered how many things in her day softened simply because she stepped away from where she had been standing.
She took a slow breath without meaning to, her shoulders rising and falling in a rhythm that felt unforced. The quiet at the window didn’t ask anything from her. It just held space.
When she turned back toward the room, nothing had changed.
The candles warmed softly.
The mug sat empty beside the couch.
The morning moved on without her needing to fix it.
And for now, that is enough
New Bridgett stories arrive on Friday mornings.
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