I woke up and did not immediately calculate the odds of surviving the day.
This was new. Startlingly, quietly, profoundly new.
For nine lives, the first thought upon waking had always been a kind of rapid inventory — a reflex so deeply worn into me that I no longer noticed it happening until it was already done. Where am I. Who knows I am here. What has changed since I closed my eyes. What does the quality of the light tell me about how much time I have before I need to move. It was a survival habit, worn smooth by repetition across lifetimes until it had stopped being a choice and simply become the way mornings began. Like breathing. Like the first cold air in the lungs before the body had fully decided to be awake.
This morning, I woke up and the first thing I noticed was the light.
