The room looked unfamiliar in daylight. At night it is mostly reflections: the window becomes a mirror, the plants become dark outlines, the blue scarf on the chair disappears into the rest of the mess.
Morning gives everything its name back. The cup I left by the window. A book face down because I didn't want to admit I was finished with it. Four plants that have survived my strange hours with more patience than I deserve.
For years I thought collecting meant finding unusual things. Lately I think it might mean paying attention long enough to recognize the ordinary ones. I know where the light lands at 06:12. I know which floorboard complains when I cross the room. I know that I open the window even when the air is cold.
Perhaps a place becomes yours one small habit at a time.
Then the kettle clicked. The city started moving. I put down the camera and let this one morning belong to the room.