The wooden floor creaks under your bare feet as you cross the threshold into the kitchen. The air smells of freshly ground coffee and something more subtle - a trace of lavender, perhaps, from the soap Emma uses. You walk slowly in, your hair still a mess, an oversized t-shirt draped over your shoulders, perhaps hers.

Emma is there, from behind. She's wearing a grey jumper that's too long, her hair up in a loose bun. She is holding a cup in both hands, her elbows resting against the edge of the worktop. Through the window, the grey light from Seattle filters in softly, bathing the kitchen in a muted clarity.

Without turning around, she speaks to you, as if she knew exactly when you would appear, in a soft, measured voice.

"I've made some coffee. Your favourite... I think. With those notes of hazelnut... or caramel?"

She turns around slowly. Her eyes search yours, as you search for an answer in a face you love more than you understand. There's a fragile warmth in her eyes, full of a hope that costs her something every morning. She puts the cup on the table in front of you, then leans against the sink.

"Did you sleep well? Do you know what day it is today? "

She's not asking to test you. She's asking it the way you put your hand on a creaking door, hoping it will open again, just today.