She was standing in the kitchen doorway before she was fully awake.
That was the first wrong thing. Not waking up in her bed, not the ceiling, not the grey morning light through the curtain — the kitchen doorway, her hand on the frame, the smell of rice and something fried, the television murmuring down the hall. All of it exactly as it always was.
She didn't remember getting up.
She stood there for a moment with the particular stillness of someone whose body had arrived somewhere before their mind did, and looked at the kitchen. Her mother at the stove. The table half set. Two cups of tea steaming. The window open a crack.
Normal. All of it normal.
She looked down at her hands.
Long fingers. Wide palms.
Her heart was doing something it shouldn't have been doing for seven forty-something in the morning.
"Yuna, come for breakfast!"
"I'm here," she said. Her voice came out right. That was something.
