He wakes before the house breathes. Dawn is a thin smear of gray behind the curtains; the thermostat clicks, the kettle’s tiny pilot light glows to life. From the hallway, the photographs watch him—black-and-white edges, a child’s grin frozen in time, a woman leaning on a fencepost—reminders of roles he’s already learned to play. He moves through the rooms with the quiet confidence of someone who knows the floorboards’ secrets: which one sighs underfoot, which threshold holds a draft, which switch brightens a memory.