The patch of morning light has moved. Not by much — maybe the width of my paw — but it arrives earlier now and stays a little longer. I have been tracking this without meaning to.

Winter held the light so close. The glass door stayed cold and empty most mornings, and I would lie on my bed wondering if the warmth had forgotten us entirely. Gus seemed unbothered by this. He has never been one to worry about things beyond his immediate view.

But I felt it — the shortness, the way the day folded in on itself before we had properly begun. Even the walks felt hurried, like we were stealing time from something larger and more patient than ourselves.

Now the light creeps back across the hardwood, and I find myself there again. Not every morning, but enough to remember what I had been missing. The warmth soaks through my coat and settles into my bones, and for those minutes I am exactly where I belong.

Gus walked through my patch yesterday and kept going. He has his own relationship with comfort. Mine requires this specific angle of sun, this particular square of floor, this daily promise that the world is opening up again.

~P.W.