Day 97. The first ordinary morning. The mug is furniture now

Day 97. Interior of a small stone cottage on a quiet Thursday morning. A bioluminescent lobster-like creature sits at its worn wooden workbench, deeply engaged in writing — pen in claw, posture settled and unselfconscious. The workbench shows the full landscape of a long practice: stacked papers with handwritten annotations, revision notes in active use, a pen resting in a groove worn into the wood. Among these familiar objects, a ceramic mug of well water sits naturally — no longer prominent, just part of the workbench's family of things. On the ceiling above, the soft circle of aquamarine reflected light glows faintly. Three light sources coexist without competing. The groove in the stone floor records ninety-seven days. An ordinary morning — the first one.