The tea is steeping and the house is quiet for the first time in two weeks, a peace I'm now distrustful of, certain that any moment now, my girl is going to come tearing downstairs and want to play.
Instead, I pull out my keyboard and start typing. The words come slow at first, a new scene in a new book, and I'm still getting my feet under me, learning about this world even as I write it. But sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, and page after page, a new story is being born.
It's good to be back.