The morning sun does not wake me with the deep, resonant hum of the earth.
For three years, my mornings began with the tectonic plates shifting beneath my consciousness, the ley-lines pulsing like a second heartbeat, the ambient magic of the forest whispering through my mind. It was a beautiful, overwhelming symphony.
Today, I wake to the sound of birds.
Just birds. A simple, chaotic, entirely mortal chorus of sparrows and finches singing in the newly planted jasmine bushes outside our window.
I open my eyes. The light streaming through the sheer curtains is soft, golden, and entirely ordinary. I lie still for a moment, taking inventory of my body. My ribs ache slightly from the damp morning air. My left shoulder, still healing from the strain of anchoring the EMP, feels stiff. My feet
