It’s a Saturday.
Which means it’s quiet.
Not tense quiet.
Not waiting-for-the-next-thing quiet.
Just London-in-October quiet.
Gray sky. Cold air. Eleanor’s blocks scattered across the living room rug.
Marcus is reading on the couch, glasses low on his nose, half-distracted but pretending not to be.
I’m at the dining table with my laptop open, revising a chapter that’s stubbornly resisting coherence.
Zara is on the floor, back against the couch, sketchbook balanced on her knees.
It’s not a remarkable day.
And that’s exactly what makes it dangerous.
Because I realize something I haven’t let myself articulate yet:
I don’t know how to narrate this part.
When life was chaos, it made sense.
There was conflict. Stakes. Movement. Things breaking and being rebuilt.
But now?
Now it’s
