I do not rush it.
That is the first rule I set for myself when I wake with Rachel’s clue heavy in my mind like something unfinished and waiting. I do not reach for it immediately. I do not unfold it with shaking hands in the dark. I get up slowly instead, feet steady on the floor, and walk to the kitchen like any other morning.
I make coffee.
I measure the grounds carefully and pour the water with deliberate precision, watching the steam curl upward as if patience can be brewed into something drinkable. I take one sip, then another, not because I need it but because ritual matters. When I am done, I rinse the mug, wash it thoroughly, dry it, wipe down the counter until there is no trace of residue, and line everything back up the way it belongs.
Only then do I go to the small drawer wh
