The first light of a new week crept into the bedroom, not as a thin, apologetic stripe like in Croydon, but as a wide, confident band of gold, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows and spilling across the polished wooden floor.
The air was still and quiet, the only sound the distant, gentle hum of London waking up, a sound so different from the clatter and rumble of the tram tracks that had been the soundtrack to my life for the past few months.
I was lying on my back, staring at the unfamiliar white ceiling, and for the first time since arriving in this city, I felt the tension in my shoulders begin to unclench.
I turned my head. Emma was still fast asleep, a tangle of limbs and fiery red hair under the crisp, clean duvet.
A small, contented smile played on her lips. We were surrounded by a small mountain range of cardboard boxes, a testament to the chaotic, exhausting, yet deeply satisfying day we'd had yesterday. It was a mess, but it was our mess. In our home.
