Speaker 1: Us was to be hers the window at dawn. Dawn
Speaker 1: woke at five forty seven every morning. She did not
Speaker 1: need an alarm. Her body knew the time, the way
Speaker 1: birds know the season, the way tides know the moon.
Speaker 1: She would open her eyes in the darkness, lie still
Speaker 1: for a moment, and then rise slowly, careful not to
Speaker 1: wake the house. Her east facing window was the first
Speaker 1: thing she saw when she sat up in the darkness.
Speaker 1: It was just a rectangle of deeper black against the
Speaker 1: gray wall. But in a few minutes it would begin
Speaker 1: to change. That was why she woke, That was why
Speaker 1: she was here. She padded to the kitchen and her
Speaker 1: bare feet, the wooden floor cool against her skin. The
Speaker 1: house was small, a cottage at the edge of town,
Speaker 1: with rooms that were easy to move through in corners
Speaker 1: that held warmth. She filled the kettle and set it
Speaker 1: on the stove while it heated. The sky was changing now.
Speaker 1: The thin line of light had thickened, spreading upward like
Speaker 1: water color on wet paper. The colors were still muted
Speaker 1: grays and soft blues, but there was warmth underneath, a
Speaker 1: glow that was building slowly, layer by layer. Dawn sipped
Speaker 1: her tea and watched. She had been doing this for
Speaker 1: three years, ever since she moved to the cottage. Before that,
Speaker 1: she had lived in the city, in an apartment with
Speaker 1: windows that faced a brick wall. She had not seen
Speaker 1: the sky in years, not really, She had forgotten what
Speaker 1: it looked like, how it changed, how it moved through
Speaker 1: the hours like a living thing. The first time she
Speaker 1: saw the sunrise from this window, she had cried, not
Speaker 1: because it was beautiful, though it was, but because she
Speaker 1: had missed it. She had missed so many mornings, so
Speaker 1: many dawns, so many moments of the world becoming new.
Speaker 1: Now she did not miss a single one. The light
Speaker 1: was changing faster now, The grays were giving way to pinks,
Speaker 1: soft and delicate, like the inside of a shell. The clouds,
Speaker 1: which had been invisible in the dark, were now catching
Speaker 1: the light, their edges glowing. Dawn leaned forward in her chair,
Speaker 1: her tea forgotten in her hands. She thought about the
Speaker 1: word dawn, how it meant two things at once, the
Speaker 1: time of day when light first appears, and the beginning
Speaker 1: of something new. She liked that. She liked that every
Speaker 1: morning was a small beginning, a chance to start again,
Speaker 1: to see the world fresh, as if for the first time.
Speaker 1: The pinks were deepening, now turning to then to coral,
Speaker 1: then to a soft orange that seemed to pulse with warmth.
Speaker 1: The sky was no longer a single color, but a
Speaker 1: wash of colors blending into each other, each one holding
Speaker 1: its own space while also becoming part of the whole.
Speaker 1: Dawn set down her cup and placed her hands on
Speaker 1: the window sill. The glass was cool, but she could
Speaker 1: feel the warmth of the light coming through it, the
Speaker 1: first heat of the day. She closed her eyes and
Speaker 1: felt it on her eyelids, a gentle pressure, like a kiss.
Speaker 1: She opened her eyes again. The horizon was on fire,
Speaker 1: now a line of gold that burned against the blue.
Speaker 1: The clouds were painted in every shade of orange and pink,
Speaker 1: and the sky above them was turning from gray to blue,
Speaker 1: from darkness to light. It was happening so slowly and
Speaker 1: so quickly at the same time, a paradox of time
Speaker 1: and beauty. She watched the sun appear. It was not
Speaker 1: a dramatic entrance, not a sudden burst of light. It
Speaker 1: was a slow rise, a gentle emergence, like a face
Speaker 1: appearing in a window. First, just the top edge, a
Speaker 1: curve of gold, then more, until the full circle sat
Speaker 1: on the horizon, glowing with a warmth that seemed to
Speaker 1: come from inside the earth itself. Dawn breathed out. She
Speaker 1: had been holding her breath without knowing it. The tension
Speaker 1: in her shoulders released, and she felt the peace that
Speaker 1: always came at this moment, the feeling that everything was
Speaker 1: exactly as it should be. The sun climbed higher, and
Speaker 1: the light flooded the room. The walls turned gold, the
Speaker 1: floor turned gold, the chair turned gold. Dawn looked at
Speaker 1: her hands on the window sill and saw them transformed,
Speaker 1: their skin glowing with the morning light. She felt as
Speaker 1: if she were part of the sun sunrise, as if
Speaker 1: the light was not just falling on her, but coming
Speaker 1: from her. She picked up her tea and took a sip.
Speaker 1: It had cooled, but it did not matter. The warmth
Speaker 1: she needed was not in the cup. It was in
Speaker 1: the light, in the room, In the quiet of the morning.
Speaker 1: She sat for a long time, watching the sky change
Speaker 1: from gold to blue, watching the clouds thin and scatter,
Speaker 1: watching the world wake up. Birds began to sing, first one,
Speaker 1: then another, then a chorus. She could hear a car
Speaker 1: passing on the road, the tires on the wet pavement.
Speaker 1: She could hear the wind moving through the trees, carrying
Speaker 1: the scent of grass and earth and newness. Dawn smiled.
Speaker 1: This was her meditation, her ritual, her way of starting
Speaker 1: each day. She did not pray, not in the traditional sense.
Speaker 1: She did not chant or meditate or recite affirmations. She
Speaker 1: simply watched. She watched the light come, and she let
Speaker 1: it fill her. She thought about the word dawn again,
Speaker 1: about how it meant both a time and a beginning.
Speaker 1: She thought about how every morning was a small ending
Speaker 1: and a small beginning, the darkness fading and the light emerging.
Speaker 1: She thought about how she had faded a little herself
Speaker 1: in the city, in the dark, and how she had
Speaker 1: come alive again here in this cottage, by this window.
Speaker 1: The sun was fully up, now, the sky a deep,
Speaker 1: clear blue. The room was bright and warm, and the
Speaker 1: day had begun. Dawn stood up from her chair and
Speaker 1: stretched her body, waking with the light. She carried her
Speaker 1: cup to the kitchen and washed it, the warm water
Speaker 1: on her hand, feeling like a continuation of the sunrise.
Speaker 1: She went about her morning, making breakfast, watering the plants,
Speaker 1: opening the windows, to lead in the air, but she
Speaker 1: carried the sunrise with her, the colors, the warmth, the quiet.
Speaker 1: It was not just something she had watched. It was
Speaker 1: something she had received, a gift from the sky, given
Speaker 1: freely every morning to any one willing to wake and watch.
Speaker 1: She thought about the people who slept through this, who
Speaker 1: covered their heads and turned away from the light. She
Speaker 1: did not judge them. She had been one of them once.
Speaker 1: But now she could not imagine missing this, could not
Speaker 1: imagine starting a day without watching it be borne. The
Speaker 1: day stretched before her, full of ordinary tasks and quiet pleasures.
Speaker 1: She would tend her garden, read her book, write a
Speaker 1: letter to her sister. She would make dinner and eat
Speaker 1: it by the window, watching the light change again, this
Speaker 1: time toward evening, toward rest. But for now, she sat
Speaker 1: in her chair by the window in the full light
Speaker 1: of morning and let the warmth hold her. The tea
Speaker 1: was warm, the light was warm, the house was warm.
Speaker 1: Everything was exactly as it should be. She closed her
Speaker 1: eyes and listened to the birds, to the wind, to
Speaker 1: the quiet hum of the world going about its business.
Speaker 1: She felt the light on her face, on her hands,
Speaker 1: on her heart. She felt the peace of the morning,
Speaker 1: deep and complete, like a wave washing over her her.
Speaker 1: This was her dawn, This was her beginning, every day,
Speaker 1: the same and always new. She breathed in and the
Speaker 1: light filled her. She breathed out, and the world was still.
Speaker 1: Sleep would come to night as it always did, but
Speaker 1: for now she was awake and the light was here,
Speaker 1: and that was enough