The First Morning

Our daughter arrived at 4:18 in the morning. By the time we came home, neither of us knew what day it was. The apartment felt exactly the same and completely different.

“For the first time in my life, I stopped asking what time it was.”

On our first morning, Sofia fell asleep beside us while I held Leonor near the window. The city was only beginning to wake. A tram moved somewhere below, the curtains lifted in the breeze, and the room slowly filled with the palest gold light.

I had worn the ChronoAstra through every appointment, every late-night drive, and every list we rewrote three times. In those months it had measured anticipation. That morning, with my daughter asleep against me, it became part of a memory instead.

Now, when the blue dial catches the early light, I remember how small she felt in my arms — and how enormous the world suddenly became.