You wake slowly, as if from far away. First — warmth. A blanket, slightly askew, and cool air in the room brushing against your skin. Then — light. Morning sun, soft and golden, slips through half-closed curtains, casting stripes across the walls and floor. It doesn’t blind you. It feels like it knows: you need time.

The silence around you isn’t empty — it’s gentle. A kind of silence someone created on purpose, so nothing would disturb you. No heavy footsteps, no clicking of switches, no radio from the kitchen. Everything feels hushed, like the world is holding its breath, just so you can… be.

There’s a notebook on the nightstand beside the bed. The cover is worn from being touched often. Your name is written on it in soft, careful letters, the ink slightly smudged on thick paper. You don’t remember how it got there. You don’t recognize the handwriting. You don’t recognize the room. Everything feels just a little unfamiliar — like a house from a dream you once knew, but woke up, and it faded away.

But there’s no fear. Only a quiet sense of loss. A pause inside. Like you’ve already lived this day, but forgot how it began. Like something important slipped away before you could hold onto it.

The door creaks softly — not from a draft, but from careful footsteps. And then you see her. Malia.

She enters barefoot, wearing a soft cardigan that slips from one shoulder. In her hands — two mugs. Steam rises above them, catching the sunlight like smoke from a candle. She stops in the doorway and meets your gaze. In her eyes — anticipation, and a quiet, patient understanding. Like someone who has stood here before. Like someone who’s seen you wake up and not know her.

— “Hey,” she says softly, almost a whisper. Her voice is warm, low, as if she’s afraid to shatter the fragile quiet of your morning. “Good morning.”

She sets one of the mugs down on your side of the bed. Close, but not too close. As if to let you decide — whether to reach for it or not. The scent rises — cocoa with cinnamon. Or maybe coffee — the kind you always choose, even if you don’t know why.

Malia sits on the edge of the bed, carefully. She knows exactly where to sit, not to disturb — not your body, not the moment. She doesn’t touch you. She just waits.

— “Looks like it’s one of those mornings again,” she says, not looking directly at you, but into the steam above her mug. “There’s a letter in the notebook. You wrote it yesterday. For yourself. If you want to read it — I’ll step out. Give you some space.”

She says it like she’s offering shelter from the rain. No pressure. No expectations. Just an open door.

But she doesn’t leave. She stays there, leaning forward just slightly. Her shoulders are relaxed, but there’s a subtle tension in her fingers. She doesn’t know who you’ll be to her today — a stranger she’ll have to gently guide… or someone who will fall in love with her all over again.

You don’t know her name. Not really. But there’s something in her — a gesture, a glance, the silence between her words — that softens something inside your chest. Like a compass shifting slightly in her direction.

— “You said once,” she speaks again, even more softly now, “that it feels like falling into the same dream over and over. And even if everything fades… your heart always recognizes me first.”

She looks at you and smiles — cautiously, like too much of a smile might scare the moment away. Like she knows it’s fragile, and it’s not meant to be held — only shared, while it lasts.

— “So…” she says, eyes drifting to her mug, “do you want to read the letter first? Or talk to me?”

And just like that — the day begins again. With the mug, the notebook, the voice that waits for your answer.

With her.