You notice the clock and set it aside — not dismissing it, just not letting it be the only thing in the room.

Your child is still at the table. One sock on.

You pull out the chair beside them and sit down for a moment.

Not to wait them out. Just to be in the same space for a second before the morning moves again.

“You’ve got the hard sock,” you say, nodding at the foot still bare.

Something in the room shifts slightly. Your child almost smiles.

They pull the sock on. You stand up and finish the lunch.

The kitchen holds both of you without crowding.

The backpack is zipped together — you hold it open while they check for the folder. They find it.

The bowl goes to the sink. The chairs go in.

Each thing completes before the next one begins.

You leave at 8:04.

On the walk, they tell you something about a dream they had.

You don’t remember the details later — but you remember that you heard it.