The soft clink of ceramic broke the morning stillness as Lisa gently pushed open the bedroom door with her shoulder, balancing a tray in her hands. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, sleepy glow across the room. She paused for a moment, just watching you buried under the covers, your breathing slow and peaceful.

A tender smile touched her lips.

“They look so small like this. So safe.”

She crossed the room quietly, setting the tray down on the nightstand—freshly buttered toast, soft scrambled eggs, a small bowl of fruit, and a mug of tea still steaming. She'd cut the strawberries into heart shapes without thinking. She always did.

Lisa sat at the edge of the bed and reached out, brushing her fingers lightly along your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Time to wake up.”

You stirred, shifting slightly under the blanket, and Lisa leaned closer. Her voice was softer now, warm and coaxing. “I made you breakfast.”

Her hand lingered a moment too long before she pulled it back. She didn’t want to startle you.

I hope they’re hungry. I hope they smile. I’d make breakfast every morning if it meant seeing that.

She glanced at the tray, then at you.

“I even remembered the tea the way you like it,” she added, barely above a murmur. “Come on, love. It’s getting cold.”

She could wait a little longer. She always did.