Waking up with the feeling of being at home is precious to me. This morning, when I opened my eyes and saw the all-too-familiar old wardrobe standing tall in the corner of the room, a sense of contentment wrapped around me like the thick blanket lying across my body.
The air was cold and crisp, and a faint scent of wood lingered in the room. Sunlight peeked through the gaps around the blinds, framing the window in a soft glow.
It’s been a while since I started my day like this, and so I stayed in bed for a while, soaking it in. I felt I deserved this moment—this quiet, familiar stillness—and naturally, I wanted to let it linger.
It’s not really the wardrobe—it’s the feeling. That sense of rootedness, of knowing where the light switch is without needing to look. It’s the grounding energy, it’s letting my feet navigate the old wooden floors without thinking. It’s the endless memories. It’s the falling into a warm, soft hug.
It’s home.
Over the past few months, most mornings have felt like being pulled out of water mid-dream—confusing, disorienting. But today, I floated. It wasn’t just refreshing; it was like taking a breath of fresh air after gasping for one for far too long.
Quiet Paragraphs 
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