Soft Morning and Calm evenings

Archer was a man of precision—a successful businessman whose life moved in perfect, measured ticks. Every morning began the same: alarm at 5:30 AM, a cold shower, a calculated breakfast, and then straight into the rhythm of meetings, emails, and the relentless pace of the city. He thrived in it, or so he believed. There was no room for deviation, no tolerance for interruptions.

Then, one ordinary morning, as he buttered his toast with mechanical efficiency, the doorbell rang.

Irritation flickered across his face. Unplanned. Unacceptable.

He opened the door to find no one there—just an ornate, full-length mirror leaning against the frame. Strange. Without thinking, he reached out, fingertips grazing the glass.

The world dissolved.

Suddenly, he stood in a vast, sunlit field, grass swaying under a soft wind. A quaint wooden house stood in the distance, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. The air smelled of earth and wildflowers.

Archer panicked. “What is this? Take me back!” he shouted, but the field swallowed his words. No phones, no schedules, no city hum—just silence and golden light.

Frustration gave way to exhaustion. He trudged toward the house, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. An open kitchen greeted him, warm and inviting. Sunlight spilled over a worn wooden table, and a pot of fresh coffee beans sat waiting.

Something in him loosened.

He moved on instinct, grinding the beans, savoring the rich aroma as water bubbled in the kettle. No rush. No next appointment. Just the slow, deliberate act of making coffee.

When he took the first sip, time stopped.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted anything—really tasted it. The bitterness, the warmth, the way it lingered on his tongue. The weight of his own exhaustion crashed over him. How long had it been since he’d paused? Since he’d breathed?

The alarm blared.

His eyes flew open.

He was back in his sterile apartment, the toast still in his hand. The mirror was gone.

But something had shifted.

That evening, for the first time in years, Archer left work early. He walked slowly. He made coffee—not because he needed the caffeine, but because he wanted to.

And for once, he let himself simply be.

The world could wait.