The Literary Doc

The days settle into a sower rhythm— gray skies, quiet rooms, familiar rituals. Some seasons unfold only in their own time. A blanket of cloud presses softly against the windows, muting the world beyond them. The rooms grow quieter, as though the walls themselves have learned the art of waiting. Familiar rituals take root in the spaces between hours: the turning of a page, the brewing of coffee, the glance toward a window that offers the same view as yesterday. Nothing change