The cold finds its way to the glass, pressing itself against the warmth inside. The couch cradles me, its fabric soft and unassuming, while my book rests against my chest—words both heavy and light. A lemon candle flickers, casting soft citrus notes into the air, sharp and sweet like a whispered memory.

From my 19th-floor window, the city skyline stretches wide, its edges softened by the afternoon sun. Light spills into the room in quiet golden beams, dancing over pages, walls, and the stillness of this moment.

The silence is not empty. Below, the occasional hum of engines and scattered voices rise and fall, faint and distant, like the pulse of the city itself. Each sound settles into the quiet like a stone dropped in still water, rippling gently before fading away.

I let my senses root me here. The cool air brushes my skin; the scent of lemon sharpens my focus. The weight of the book grounds me, its crisp pages demanding a tactile engagement that screens never will. This is a Sunday I wish to keep… cold, quiet, and full of small warmths.

I Am