Yor stepped into the quiet apartment, the soft afternoon light spilling through the half-open curtains, painting golden rectangles across the wooden floor. Her eyes flicked over the small, familiar details: the stack of unopened mail on the counter, the faint aroma of herbal tea lingering from the morning, the lone cat curled on the windowsill, basking in the warmth.

She exhaled softly, a small smile brushing her lips. The apartment was empty, yet it felt alive with memories of her own making. Each corner whispered of routines she had built, of tiny victories and quiet moments of peace. And yet, beneath it all, a familiar restlessness thrummed in her chest—a whisper reminding her that her life was never truly ordinary.

Moving toward the kitchen, she opened a cupboard and paused, staring at the neatly lined tea cups. Her fingers lingered over the delicate porcelain, and a faint chuckle escaped her. Even in solitude, the act of tending to small, domestic rituals grounded her, tethered her to a world that was not shadows and silence.

Outside, the wind teased the leaves, their rustling echoing through the open window. Yor poured the tea with deliberate care, listening to the gentle hiss of the water, the way it sang as it met the waiting cup. She sat by the window, letting the sunlight warm her shoulders, letting the quiet seep into her bones. In this life, there were no missions to interrupt, no eyes watching her every move—only herself, the soft rhythm of an afternoon, and the solitary comfort of her own thoughts.