There is a specific quality to the light in early September. It doesn't rush. It seems to rest on things—the edge of the sink, the corner of the wooden board, the curve of the ceramic mug—as if it has all the time in the world. I sat here for an hour before turning the kettle on, just watching the room slowly assemble itself out of the grey.

In the past, I would have reached for my phone within thirty seconds of sitting down. I would have scrolled through other people's mornings, other people's kitchens, other people's lives. But today, I kept my hands on the warm clay of the mug. The air was cool, Manila's usual hum was still a distant whisper, and for a few minutes, everything was exactly as it should be.