The idea starts quietly.
Not as a plan or a list or anything organized. Just a pull. A steady, insistent tug every time I pass the spare room at the end of the hall. The door stays closed most days, the space inside still neutral and unused, but my eyes linger there longer than they should. Sometimes I slow my steps without realizing it. Sometimes I stop entirely, hand drifting to my stomach without conscious thought.
My body already knows what that room is going to be.
One morning, I wake up with the certainty settled deep in my chest. Not excitement exactly. Not urgency. Just knowing, the kind that doesn’t ask permission.
Today.
I lie there for a few minutes, listening to the house breathe. The soft tick of cooling pipes. The distant sound of a car passing outside. My own heartbeat
