Page 15 of King Of Order

Early light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground. As I stepped barefoot onto the soft grass, a sense of calm began to wash over me.

The yard burst with life, from the occasional bird trill to the dainty rustling of leaves stirred by a passing breeze.

I closed my eyes and breathed in, letting the fresh air fill my lungs and center me. With its wildflowers and creeping vines, this space had always been my sanctuary.

Gossamer-winged butterflies—small, fragile creatures with pinions painted in pale blue and orange—fluttered in and out of the sunlight as if performing a delicate dance. They drifted between the flowers, their wings flapping.

I smiled, my gaze on their gentle flight.

It took me a minute to center, and then I launched into my yoga poses with slow, deliberate effort.

With every stretch, each bend came release, the tightness in my body unwinding as I held my poses.

I focused on the sensation of my muscles lengthening, my joints loosening, and my breath deepening with every movement.

Inhaling again, the sweet oxygen filled my chest, and with it, my thoughts quietened.

Exhaling, I let go of the tension gripping me for days.

In minutes, my troubles lifted from my shoulders.

The sun rose higher, its warmth touching my face.

I sank into my final pose—seated, cross-legged on the mat.

My hands rest on my knees, palms facing upward, fingers relaxed. Tilting my face toward the light, I welcomed the gentle kiss of sunshine against my closed eyelids and a deep gratitude filling my soul.

Each breath drew me further away from the chaos that consumed me in recent months. It was as if the garden was breathing with me, pulsing with shared energy and nourishing my weary soul.

After a quick shower, I dressed in my typical attire for the gallery: sleek linen cream trousers, a silk blouse with a wild print, and my favorite pair of leather heels.

Simple, elegant.

The echoes of the city distilled through my open window—people chatting on their morning commutes, scooters buzzing by on cobblestone streets.

I prepared my usual breakfast in the kitchen: an espresso and a slice of whole wheat toast with peach conserve. I ate, savoring the coffee’s bittersweet flavor and fruity tang.

Outside, in my midsize garden, my citrus plants budded, and so did the tomatoes, and I couldn’t wait for a bumper harvest.

All so familiar, so comforting, my home wrapping me in goodness.

But when I stepped outdoors, the day took a strange turn.

I walked toward my car.

Jolting, I narrowed my eyes on a black vehicle idling a few houses down the road.

Sleek and inconspicuous, it shrieked of understated style, not unlike many of the cars on my street—if it weren’t for the fact I’d spotted it the last couple of mornings, too.

My heart began to race, a quiet, uneasy thrum in my chest.

I sensed the driver’s eyes, invisible behind the tinted windows. Though the engine noise was too far away to be audible, I tagged steam curling from its bumper.

It was idling, waiting.For me?

I slipped into my car, trying to shake off the unsettling sensation crawling up my spine.

‘It’s a coincidence,’ I told myself as I started the motor.

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