That morning, the house woke before she did.
The old floor gave its first complaint. A pipe knocked once behind the wall, then regretted the sound. Outside, someone dragged a bin over gravel, its wheels stuttering like teeth. A dog barked twice and seemed to remember the hour.
Wyona opened her eyes. The ceiling was still there. The crack above the light fixture was still shaped like a river.
Perla was awake. The kitchen had begun to speak in her sister’s language — cupboard, spoon, kettle, cup. A small ceramic click. A drawer closing carefully, as if the house were a patient that could be startled into pain.
“Do not bring me tea,” Wyona called.
From the kitchen: “Too late.”
Wyona closed her eyes again. Eighty-two years old, and still no one listened to her when it mattered least.
Perla came in carrying two cups, one in each hand, moving slowly enough to prove she was not old and carefully enough to prove she was.
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