The first thing Nina heard that morning was her phone vibrating against the bedside table.
She kept her eyes closed.
One vibration could be anything. A delivery update. Her mother sending a photo of the neighbour’s cat. Someone at work asking a question that could wait until nine.
The phone vibrated again.
Nina reached across the bed and turned it face down. The clock beside it read 6:41. Her alarm was set for seven.
For a moment, she lay still and listened to the rubbish truck moving down the street. She could picture the messages waiting on her screen. Yesterday, she had left the office with a report half finished and a promise to send it this morning. Her manager knew that. So did the people who needed it. Still, she felt the familiar pull to check.
She got up before she could change her mind.
In the kitchen, Nina filled the kettle. While it heated, she opened the curtains. The apartment across the courtyard was dark, except for one lit window on the top floor. A man stood there watering a row of plants. Nina had seen him doing it most mornings, though they had never spoken.
On her own windowsill sat a basil plant she had bought three weeks ago. Its leaves drooped toward the glass.
“Sorry,” she said, and gave it some water.
The kettle clicked off. Nina made tea and took it to the small table by the window. She usually drank it while reading emails, barely noticing the taste. Today, her phone was still in the bedroom.
She took one sip. Then another.
Outside, the man set down his watering can. He looked across the courtyard and raised his hand. Nina glanced behind her before realising he was waving at her. She lifted her cup in reply.
Her tea was still hot when she began thinking about work again.
The report needed two figures checked. At ten, she had a meeting she had not prepared for. There was laundry in the machine that she had forgotten to hang out last night. None of it would disappear because she sat here drinking tea.
Nina went to the bedroom and picked up her phone.
The screen showed two messages. One was from a colleague asking whether she had the latest report. The other was from her mother: The tomatoes are finally red.
Below it was a photo of three tomatoes on a balcony plant, bright and slightly uneven. Her mother had been talking about them for weeks.
Nina smiled and typed, You were right. They look ready.
Then she opened her colleague’s message. She wrote, I’ll send the report by nine, as planned.
She put the phone down and returned to the kitchen. The tea had cooled enough to drink properly. Her basil leaves had begun to lift.
At seven, her alarm sounded from the bedroom. Nina finished her cup before going to turn it off.
