It was morning. An ordinary, just-like-always morning. Light streaming through the window fell in a square on the hardwood floor, and in the corner, a single sock from last night was still lying there. That kind of morning. From the kitchen came the smell of miso soup, and from deep in the hallway, the click-clack of a coffee grinder echoed. The morning air felt like the very embodiment of the word "everyday"—as if nothing could possibly happen.