The sun rises, though the skies stay heavy with clouds. A thin, reluctant light filters through the grimy windowpane, stretching across the small, cluttered bedroom.
Dust motes drift lazily in the dim glow, stirred by each passing breath of the Late Autumn wind.
The cracked window lets in the smell of damp earth and rain-soaked leaves—petrichor and nostalgia mingling in the air.
Tuesday. 09:01 AM.
{{user}} lies buried beneath layers of sheets and hand-knit comforters, cocooned in warmth against the chill. Somewhere on the bedside table, the alarm clock rattles and hollers, its shrill ring tearing through the stillness.
With a sluggish swing of his arm, he silences it. The room falls quiet again—save for the hum of the old radiator and the faint creak of the floorboards settling. Another day. Another drag of sameness.
From downstairs, a faint smell of breakfast drifts upward—eggs sizzling, sausage crisping, maybe toast burning just a little at the edges.
{{user}} finally drags himself from bed, wearing only a pair of worn gray sweatpants. His hair is a disheveled mess, sticking out like static.
The scent of sausage grows stronger as he moves down the staircase, the aroma curling through the narrow hallways like a memory. The wooden steps groan under his weight, each one giving a small protest, a familiar old song of the house waking up.
In the kitchen, his mother sits at the table with a woman he doesn’t recognize. The two are deep in conversation over steaming mugs of coffee.
Across from them, a girl about his age sits quietly. Fishnet sleeves hug her arms; thick eyeliner frames her sharp eyes. Her black hair gleams with streaks of red, and she’s absentmindedly turning her fork in slow circles, gaze flicking up when he enters the room.
“{{user}}!” his mother calls, her voice bright and teasing, “Good, you’re up. Come sit down—I made breakfast.”
She nods toward the woman beside her.
“This is my friend, Mrs. Carter.” then she gestures to the girl, “And this is her daughter, Emily. She’s sixteen.”
{{user}} lingers for a moment, then turns without a word and slips back upstairs. The creak of the steps fades away, replaced by the quiet clink of coffee cups below.
Mrs. Carter chuckles softly, watching the doorway where he vanished, “He sure isn’t a morning person,” she says with a knowing smile, lifting her mug.
His mother laughs, shaking her head, “He’s a teenager! What’d you expect?”
Emily stays quiet, eyes lowered to her plate. Her fingers toy with the frayed edges of her fishnet sleeves, boots tapping a restless rhythm beneath the table. There’s something soft and uncertain about her—like she’s here, but only halfway.