Restless night, drifting in and out, half dream currents slipping away before I could catch them. Morning came slow, heavier than usual. The farmers market was already over by the time we stirred. Instead, the Kroger lot, trunk open, bags appearing as if by magic, groceries delivered through the summer air. Breakfast followed, simple, grounding, like stepping back into our own rhythm.

A pause at Sycamore Station, just to look, to wander. Got a couple of scones,  and the place had its own hush, like it was waiting for something. Then back home, where the hours stretch soft and unhurried. A book in my lap, chores weaving in and out of the quiet. The cat sleeps on the chair across from me, a perfect shape, like a thought curled tight, dreaming her own small worlds.

Tuesday lingers ahead. In-laws returning if the road is kind. Their anniversary, his birthday, a double celebration, already glowing faintly on the horizon. Candles, cake, maybe laughter looping late into the night.

For now, the house hums low, late light sliding across the floorboards, shadows lengthening. The day feels suspended, neither rushing nor standing still, only breathing.