The Hour Before

He loved to begin the day in the silent hour when the world had not yet pulled at him. Wrapped in his dressing gown, with coffee cooling between his hands, he brought a cigarillo to his lips. The first drags tilted him slightly out of himself, a dizziness that almost offered comfort. The smoke curled away, and his mind cleared, though never entirely. Something always remained, a faint haze he could not lift.

His rituals kept him upright. Porridge drowned in cinnamon, a lost warmth imagined. He flipped through the pages of his small paper notebook, noting things to be done, more duty than reassurance. Then he set the needle down on the spinning vinyl, and Billie Holiday’s voice floated through the room, soft and bittersweet: “Don’t Explain”. Even now, the song caught him unguarded.

The shower followed, water closing around him like a second skin. He let it run as long as he could, delaying the day, delaying the world. But when the tap ran dry, the chill returned, inevitable as a shadow.

He dressed without looking in the mirror. The reflection felt like someone he used to know. The tie too tight, the shirt too clean, a mask of steadiness. By the window, the muted light of the early morning shifted uncertainly. He thought of mornings that once meant something: laughter, toast, humming off-key. Now only fragments replayed inside his head.

He placed the empty cup in the sink, aligned with the others. Order made life bearable. Reaching for his coat, a thought brushed against him: What if one morning he simply didn’t begin at all?

Outside, the first vehicles stirred along the quiet street. The world remembered him. He stepped into it, the faint scent of cinnamon still clinging to his hands—enough to remember, not enough to stay.