closed! -.-
credits: all. Anyways, no stealing!!! credits to: Pin, Google & more. little story: As the first blush of dawn crept across the sky, she stepped onto the creaking front porch, the wood cool beneath her bare feet. The morning air wrapped around her like a soft shawl, quiet and damp with the promise of a new day. She walked down the steps and into the yard, where the grass shimmered with a thousand tiny droplets. Bending down, she brushed her fingers against the blades—slick, cool, and alive. The dew clung to her skin like nature's own reminder to slow down, to feel, to be. For a moment, she just knelt there, breathing in the hush of the morning, her fingertips kissed by the earth. She stood slowly, her fingertips tingling from the damp touch of the grass, and looked toward the horizon where soft light was melting the last of the night’s shadows. The world felt paused, like it was holding its breath just for her. A bird called out from a nearby tree, sharp and silver in the silence, and she smiled, drawn into the rhythm of morning. With each breath, her chest rose with something deeper than air—a quiet gratitude, unspoken and full. She turned back toward the house, dewdrops clinging to her toes, carrying the earth with her like a secret. Inside, the kettle began its slow rumble, sending faint puffs of steam against the kitchen window. She caught sight of it through the screen door, its familiar whistle not far off. The warmth waiting for her there—tea, toast, and the worn book still open from last night—called her back gently. But something in her lingered. One last glance at the pearled lawn, the sky gently blooming with light, and she exhaled. Not out of relief or urgency, but in quiet agreement with the moment: it was good to be here, now. The door clicked softly behind her as she stepped back inside, the hush of morning still clinging to her like a second skin. She padded across the kitchen floor, cool tile meeting damp toes, and reached for the kettle just as it began to sing. The sound echoed faintly, warm and comforting, a gentle nudge back into the rhythm of the day. As she poured the hot water over the waiting teabag, a curl of steam rose to meet her face, carrying the scent of bergamot and something nostalgic. Even indoors, the quiet clarity of the morning stayed with her—etched into her fingertips, humming just beneath her skin.
