It was still dark outside when Maya slipped on her shoes, careful not to make a sound. The house was wrapped in silence, broken only by the gentle tick of the living room clock. She glanced back at her father, who lay on the worn sofa under a thin blanket, his chest rising and falling steadily. His face looked peaceful in sleep, but she knew better. Those lines on his face had grown deeper in the years since her mother had passed away, each one a testament to the weight he carried alone.They used to go on early morning walks together as a family. It had been her mother’s idea—a way to enjoy the quiet beauty of the sunrise, together. But after she was gone, those walks had become Maya’s ritual alone, her way of holding on to her mother’s memory, to a sense of calm in a world that had tilted off its axis.The dawn air was crisp and cold, the kind of chill that settled in her lungs, sharp and bright. Maya loved that feeling; it made her feel alive, in a way that reminded her of her mother’s favorite saying: “Every sunrise is a new beginning, Maya. A promise of better things.”