It’s exactly 4:44 am.

The trouble with sleeping early is waking up at what should be an ungodly hour. The only sounds I hear are the hum of the fridge, the tick tock of a tiny pendulum clock, and the creaks of mom’s bed as she changes her position, unable to sleep.

This sadness is overwhelming.

My brother’s door opens, the old wood protesting loudly against the worn tiles. He moves past me and towards the bathroom. A few minutes later, he heads my way and rests a warm hand on my shoulder.

“You’re awake.”

“I know.”

“You were asleep.”

“I woke up.”

“Go back to sleep.”, he says as he walks away, back into his room.

—

It’s now 5:05 am.

The echoes of his voice still resound in my head.

If it were only that easy, I think.