At 4:00 AM, the town still lay beneath its blanket of silence. Gustavo’s alarm erupted—a shrill, unforgiving shriek—yanking him from half-dreams. He groaned, limbs heavy as wet towels, and fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand. Each movement felt like wading through molasses; even blinking cost effort.
In the kitchen, he set the kettle on its burner, hands trembling as he measured three spoonfuls of coffee and three of creamer into his chipped mug. No sugar, because at this hour sweetness was a luxury. Steam hissed from the spout, and when the first drop of boiling water hit the powder, Gustavo flinched as if stung.