There it is.
Still.
Well, everything is still in the night of morning. Even the whir and buzz of the fan has a stillness to it.
5:52 am.
I have to get up or I'll be late, she thinks.
She thinks this every morning but stays in bed till 6:18, when there is a seemingly sudden soft light about her room and the birds begin their morning songs and the world outside wakes up.
5:59 am.
I have to get up or I'll be late.
• • •
YOU ARE READING
S i l v e r
Short StoryShe is like the drops of rain on rose petals She is like the fluid glass of water She is like the glint of s i l v e r in the fading sun
