The Morning Isn't Over Yet

Outside the window it's still gray. Traces of the dawn rain remain on the glass. She reaches a hand out from under the covers to test the temperature of the air. Cold, but not harsh. An unfamiliar smell has settled into the room. Rain-soaked earth and the scent of a tree she doesn't know. On the small table, the teacup has gone cold just as she left it last night. Even without the lamp, the room is dimly visible. The clock at her bedside shows local time. She doesn't read it. Far off, she hears a train passing. A platform where someone must have waited for someone to step off, stairs now empty. She holds the curtain and stands there a little while. Wind slips through the gap in the door and brushes the top of her foot. The morning isn't over yet. That it's allowed to be that way, no one says, but still.