Today in Roanoke felt like a reset that hit again like it was on a timer.

Morning came in gray layers, the kind that stack quietly over the valley until you realize the light has already been there for a while. The mountains were partially erased, then redrawn as the clouds shifted, their outlines softened like someone had rubbed an eraser over the edges and decided to stop halfway. It was cold, but not sharply so. More a reminder of when we had snow.

The city has moved past the holidays now. You can feel it. Decorations linger in a few stubborn yards, lights still blinking out of habit, but most things have returned to their working posture. Traffic resumed its usual patterns. Coffee cups were carried with purpose. The pause has ended, gently but firmly.

Our one visitor left today. No ceremony, just a wave and “see you in summer” Just bags gathered, a few last words exchanged, the door closing with that particular final click that sounds louder than usual. The house noticed immediately. Rooms shifted back into themselves. The air felt rearranged, as if it was remembering how it normally circulates.

The rest of the family will probably be heading back soon too. You can sense that approaching adjustment already, the way conversations start to tilt toward logistics and timelines. The holidays loosen their grip one departure at a time. What remains is familiarity, settling back into place.

Outside, everything seemed to be recalibrating as well. Birds returned to routine business, no longer lingering like they had an excuse. Squirrels resumed their efficient negotiations with gravity and fences. The ground stayed damp and dark, holding onto the memory of recent weather without making a fuss about it.

The light never really committed today. It hovered. Even at midday, it felt like winter was keeping its voice low. By late afternoon, the valley took on that familiar steel-blue tone, the one that makes the distance between houses feel larger and the space between moments feel longer.

This is not a day that asks to be remembered. It does not offer a story or a lesson. It simply shows up, does what it is supposed to do, and hands the calendar back to you with a nod. January is good at this. It clears its throat and says, “All right. Let’s continue.”

Tonight, Roanoke settles into its regular breathing again. The house does too. The mountains stay where they have always been. Tomorrow will add its own small adjustments.

I note the day. That seems sufficient.