The kitchen is stretching itself awake. Cupboards creak. The kettle settles itself on a low burner so it won’t be tempted to loudly whistle when the water’s hot enough for tea and wake the rest of the house. It cares like that. A cicada is due to knock itself out on the window at any moment, it has an appointment to keep. The lemon slices in the blue cup wave up from the bottom, swear they’ll manage to last another morning. Otherwise a simultaneously light and heavy silence pervades the world’s four corners.