That Monday in February began with a peculiar heaviness in the air, one that hinted at change yet left everything unformed, like fog drifting over a shoreline at dawn. I woke as usual, the muted gray light of winter filtering through the blinds, the aroma of coffee a small comfort in the otherwise quiet apartment. John was already at the kitchen table, his posture stiff, his eyes glued to the glow of his phone. There was no greeting, no trace of morning cheerfulness, only the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the wooden surface, an impatient cadence that made my chest tighten. For a moment, I considered leaving him to his digital world, but a small voice in the back of my mind urged me to pay attention.

I poured my coffee, the warmth seeping into my hands, grounding me against the strange energy permeating the apartment. When I sat across from him, the words tumbled out before I could stop them, a mixture of curiosity and dread. “Where to?” I asked, trying to mask the tremor in my voice. He lifted his eyes briefly, almost reluctantly, and answered with a casualness that felt brittle.