We set off later than usual this morning. The season is turning, and the darker dawns seem to lull even Carys into a slower start. She waits more patiently now for the light to arrive, as if she, too, understands that some things are worth waiting for.
The mornings come slower now. When I wake, the light hasn’t yet found its way through the curtains—just that deep, blue-grey half-light that feels neither night nor day. Carys is already awake, stretching at the foot of the bed, tail thudding softly against the floor. She knows the routine, and she’s always ready before I am.
Our morning walk is quiet, calm, and familiar—the kind of day where nothing demands to be photographed, and yet everything seems worthy of notice.