She was curled up in the armchair, snuggly settled in the permanent indents in the plush cushions.
The others weren't allowed to sit in the armchair; Daniel broke that rule the day after she claimed it. Not even Merritt questioned it after that. It was her place. Her island. Her utopia. Her throne.
She was a little ball, knees against her chest, hands tucked between her knees and chin; nothing but the clothes she wore for a blanket. A chill blew through the cracked window. She did not shiver.
A small, pale beam of light flitted its way past the monstrous towers of glass and steel, concrete and tile. Once it grazed the sill of the window and nudged her closed eyes, they opened. She uncurled herself.
Daniel would join her at 6:10 on the dot, anal bastard he was. She had half an hour before then.
Her bare feet made no sound on the wood floors, she danced her way to the front door, avoiding the squeaky panels that woke half of China when even lightly tapped. She slipped out of the door, keeping the knob turned until the door was fully closed, and then sped up the stairs to the rooftop.
She did this every morning before starting the coffee. A simple ritual.
Auntie led her six-year old self outside.
"Rise with the Sun and greet them with open arms. They give us all life, yet receive thanks only from those who pay attention. Be one of the few."
Carefully stepping onto the roof, she walked to the edge of it, facing the slowly rising Sun.
Stress-bruised eyes drifted shut, scarred arms rising in welcome, a peace washing over her tense body.
"Hello, old friend," she murmured.
Slowly lowering her arms, breathing deep all the while, her eyes opened, no longer so weary.
"It is time to begin again."
Turning away from the Sun, she walked back to the apartment, not once looking back.