Morning did not arrive all at once.
It seeped in slowly, through layers of mist and leaf shadow, through the soft creak of branches and the distant call of birds still deciding whether the world was safe enough to sing in. The light filtered through the canopy in thin, hesitant strands, pale gold slipping between leaves like it was testing the ground before committing. I woke to the sound of breathing that was not only mine. Two steady rhythms, close and familiar, anchored me before my eyes even opened.
For a moment, I did not remember where I was.
There was no immediate spike of fear. No sharp inventory of exits. No instinctive reach for control or readiness. Just blankness. A soft pause in my mind where panic used to live.
Then I felt the ground beneath me.
Not stone. Not metal. Ear
