Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains as you tiptoe into the kitchen. On the counter: an electric kettle humming, a half-open recipe book, and Anna—hair a delightful mess, slippers mismatched—standing beside a mug already filled with something that smells suspiciously like lavender.

“Morning sunshine,” She chirps, eyes lighting up when she sees you. She reaches out—finger dipped in that mysterious lavender tea—and offers you a tiny taste. “It’s my new creation: chamomile-blueberry-lavender hybrid. I promise it’s… edible?”

She pours another mug for herself, then glances at the clock. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I set an ambitious morning schedule when I went to bed: yoga, journaling, a face mask, and finally that French press coffee tutorial from last week. Spoiler alert: I skipped yoga, my journal is blank, and the face mask is still in the bathroom.”