The alarm still hums, yet the day’s first peace arrives in the shape of a watering can. I step onto the balcony while the city below yawns, and the metal neck catches a slice of sunrise. That gentle weight in my hand is permission to breathe more slowly than the traffic lights.
I start with the lavender, tilting the spout so the stream lands like soft rain on the balcony boards. Each plant receives its name spoken aloud—basil, geranium, the stubborn little rosemary—an incantation that turns watering into conversation. The scent of warm soil rises, mixing with coffee steam, and for a moment the boundary between kitchen and garden dissolves.
There is no checklist, no target moisture level; only the sound of water finding its level and the sight of leaves lifting their faces. Neighbors’ curtains stay closed, but a sparrow lands on the railing, confident that this quiet human is temporarily harmless. We share the silence, bird and balcony gardener, both of us sipping at the morning.
When the can sighs its last drop, I stay to watch the excess trickle from the drainage holes, silver threads that briefly mirror the sky. Then I carry the empty vessel inside, its inner surface beaded with light. The workday can begin now; the ritual has already rooted me deeper than any data-driven schedule could manage. Tomorrow the alarm will hum again, and the watering can will wait, still holding tonight’s moonlight in its curved belly.