It was around 5:30 in the morning when my mother’s hand gently stirred me from sleep. The kind of morning where even the wind moves softly, like it, too, doesn’t want to wake anyone up. The silence outside was heavier than usual—no passing cars, no clatter from nearby tea stalls. Just a few birds rehearsing their morning chorus, and maybe the distant footsteps of our society watchman, if he wasn’t tucked away somewhere on a tea break.

What really caught me off guard, though, was the quiet from the building right across ours. It was… peaceful. The kind of peaceful that felt unusual. Whenever i wake up this early that family always had something going on—utensils clanging, doors opening and closing. But today, for once, there was none of that.

And strangely, I missed it.

During my exam days, when I used to pull those late-night study marathons, it was their kitchen sounds—usually the clatter of a spoon against a steel plate or a pressure cooker’s early whistle—that reminded me it was 5 a.m. That tiny chaos across the street became my unofficial clock, whispering, “You’ve made it through the night.” I realised … i missed those old days.

Inside my home, the peace continued. It was still and dim. Everyone else was still lost in sleep—my siblings wrapped in their blankets, the hallway quiet. Only three of us were awake: me, my mother, and my father.  We shared that familiar kind of morning tiredness where you move because you must, not because your body wants to.


I dragged myself to the bathroom and stood there brushing, staring into the mirror like it would give me a reason to move faster. My mother’s voice broke through from outside the door, “Hurry up or you’ll miss it.”
“I know,” I mumbled through toothpaste foam, pretending I was in control of time.

By 6:15, I had somehow managed . I wore a black shirt—sleeves folded with rebellious pride—paired with loose blue jeans. A couple of accessories dangled from my wrist and neck to fake the illusion of coordination. I looked like someone who tried… but not too hard.

“Book the cab now,” my father said  “Mornings are tricky—don’t wait till the last minute.”

I nodded and unlocked my phone, eyes still heavy, fingers moving through the app with practiced ease. The little digital car spun in its loop, searching for a driver in half-asleep streets. I watched it for a moment, half-expecting it to vanish altogether. While it searched, I drifted into the checklist playing on loop in my head—wallet, documents, phone charger. A pause. Then again—wallet.

My mother entered the room She handed me a tiffin box . “Eat this on the way,” she said softly, as if those words had been passed down across generations. Then, like a ritual, she added, “Don’t forget your wallet.”

I gave a slight nod, the kind you give when you’re pretending to be confident but still not entirely sure if you packed your toothbrush.

My father, not one to trust nods alone, asked again, “Ticket? ID?”

I tapped my pockets . “All here,” I said.

The house was still. The walls hadn’t yet caught the heat of the sun. My mother was about to begin her daily chores , my father stood by the window, watching the sky shift shades. Outside, the sky was still a gentle shade of sleep. The birds were mid-conversation, the streets almost empty, and the city hadn’t yet put on its usual chaos. Somewhere between sleep and sunrise.

The cab was still a few minutes away.