Morning light filtered through the windows in the same familiar angles, catching along the edge of the counter and stretching across the floor in quiet bands that shifted almost imperceptibly as the day began. The house held itself without hesitation, steady and unremarkable, as though nothing within it had needed to brace for Willow's return. She registered that before anything else, standing barefoot on the bathroom tile, wrapped in a bathrobe that still carried warmth from the dryer, her hair damp and darkened from the shower.
Steam softened the mirror, blurring her reflection until she reached up and cleared a narrow path through it with the side of her hand. She studied herself there, not with scrutiny, but with the kind of attention reserved for moments that marked transition rather than rupture. She looked settled, tired in a way that came from completion rather than depletion, grounded in a way she recognized and trusted.
