rise by Laurel Krown

Laya woke before her alarm, the early morning light slipping through the sheer curtains of her bedroom. She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, her mind waking faster than her body. Mondays usually felt heavy, too many obligations, too many thoughts crowding in before she had the chance to sort them, but

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The café felt different after hours on Sunday night. Softer. Warmer. Like it finally exhaled. It was a little after eight, the sign flipped to CLOSED, the doors locked, and the only light came from the warm overhead lamps that cast a honey glaze across the tables. Laya sat on the counter with her legs

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Harlan woke before the sun, the room dim and cold, the kind of cold that stung a little before your body adjusted. Sundays meant fishing with his dad. He liked thinking of it as a father and son tradition, something consistent and grounding. His dad treated it more like an escape from everything and everyone,

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