June 29

Five hundred became two hundred. A number lowered until it meant something again — until the next step felt worth taking.

Somewhere a timer counts down from three, twenty heartbeats at a time, marking space between what you want and what you’re allowed to take.

There are things that sit in the queue long after they’ve finished their work, not blocking anything, just occupying room — the way old patience fills a house and no one notices it’s there anymore.

The counter resets at midnight. Everything gets another turn.