The morning light filtered through the curtains as the old clock on the mantle struck seven. Outside, birds had already begun their daily chorus, filling the quiet neighborhood with a familiar warmth. A dog barked somewhere down the street, and the smell of fresh coffee drifted through the kitchen window.

Marcus had always loved this time of day. Before the emails arrived, before the meetings started, before the world demanded his attention — there was this small window of peace. He would sit with his mug, watch the garden, and think about nothing in particular. It was, he believed, the most honest part of any day.

The garden had changed a lot since his mother passed. She had kept it obsessively — roses along the left fence, lavender near the gate, a small vegetable patch in the corner that produced more tomatoes than two people could ever eat. Marcus had tried to maintain it, but gardens have their own opinions about who tends them.