Before the Fireworks

The morning arrives without permission. No drums yet, no red envelopes clicking open. Just light slipping across the kitchen tile and the kettle remembering its job.

She rinses rice until the water clears, patient as someone who has learned that clarity comes last. On the counter, tangerines glow like small suns. She turns them so the good sides face up. This is not superstition so much as courtesy.

Outside, neighbors are already awake but quiet, the city holding its breath. Someone sweeps the sidewalk slowly, making room. Someone else tapes a paper character to a door that has seen many years and will see more.

She thinks about what people expect from a new year: declarations, luck negotiated loudly, a version of herself with sharper edges and fewer mistakes. She lets that version wait. The rice steams. The kettle sings. The calendar changes without asking her opinion.

She lights incense by the window and doesn’t ask for anything complicated. Health. Time. The ability to keep showing up for ordinary mornings. She thanks the ones who came before for teaching her which motions matter and which can be skipped.

When the food is ready, she serves a bowl before anyone else wakes. The steam fogs the glass and then clears. She eats slowly, listening to the building settle into itself.

Later there will be noise. Red everywhere. Children running with envelopes they don’t fully understand. Fireworks arguing with the sky. But for now, the year is small enough to hold.

She wipes the counter clean. She opens the door. She steps into it.