Before the Day Breaks
Something tinkles softly in the silence.
A fragile sound, almost shy, as if someone had hung stars on an invisible thread and let them gently collide by accident. The light hesitates, shifts, unable to decide between two colors. It pulses, calms, then starts again, as though it, too, is searching for the right shade.
The hallway holds its breath.
On the wall, a small owl-shaped clock blinks one eye. Then the other. The hands point to 5:02 a.m.
This is clearly not an hour meant for being awake.
Except, perhaps, when one is creating.
Or when one has completely forgotten what sleeping means.
Spring has been here for a few days already. It arrived without ceremony, as if it had taken advantage of a brief lapse in attention to settle in. Cherry trees are in bloom, and even at this painfully early hour, the air is filled with that delicate, slightly sweet fragrance capable of putting people in a good mood—people who never asked for it. Especially those who are not morning people. Which is to say: almost everyone.
A light seeps out from beneath a door at the end of the hallway.
Not an ordinary light. It almost seems to breathe. It pulses softly, shifts, and from time to time, small crystalline chimes escape from it—discreet but stubborn. Tiny bells. There is no mistaking it: magic is at work here. And not the polite, well-behaved kind. No. The kind that goes cling when you touch it and refuses to stay quiet.
Behind the door, a shadow moves across the room with energy. It stops abruptly, darts off in the opposite direction, nearly spins. The gestures are broad, precise, passionate—those of a conductor in the middle of a trance, entirely absorbed in the music she is directing, forgetting without the slightest remorse the world around her… and, incidentally, the time.
As one draws closer, tiny shooting stars appear in the air. They burst forth like miniature fireworks, spin around themselves, then vanish with a discreet poof of light. One could very well sit down right here, on the doorstep, just to watch a little longer. After all, sleep can wait a few more minutes. At least for those who are still sleeping.
Inside, a small, focused voice rises.
“Mmm… no. That red is too overpowering…”
A silence settles in, heavy with artistic consideration. Then:
“There. That’s better!”
Immediately, the light shifts in tone—softer, more balanced—like it has just sighed in relief. The starry chimes tinkle briefly, satisfied. The luminous concerto resumes with renewed enthusiasm, clearly very proud of itself.
The scene finally reveals itself.
Seen from behind, a young girl stands before a large glowing canvas. Her peach-orange hair, dusted with star-like sparkles, cascades down her back. Two long ears with rounded tips peek out from her hair, twitching with every adjustment, every approving murmur she grants herself.
She steps forward.
She steps back.
She tilts her head.
She adjusts a detail invisible to anyone not fully immersed in the piece.
She never truly stops. One step to the left. A precise gesture. A half-turn. A critical retreat. Completely absorbed, as if the rest of the world had kindly agreed to wait outside.
From the street, one might think a nighttime party is underway. Yet no sound escapes into the quiet road. Night still sleeps deeply, wrapped in its blankets like any sensible being with a normal schedule the next day.
On the branches of nearby trees, several birds are perched. They look… tired. Very tired. Some fight heroically to keep one eye open. Others display dark feathered circles that are far from flattering. And yet, none of them fly away. All remain, hypnotized by the shifting colors spilling from the window. At this point, even sleep seems to have given up arguing.
Inside, the girl keeps working. Nothing appears capable of disturbing her.
“And there! My final touch and—”
A monumental yawn suddenly bursts forth—long, wide, unstoppable. A yawn that stretches as though it has been waiting for its moment for days.
She blinks. Once. Then twice. Her shoulders slump slightly. One might assume a shortened night, a late inspiration. In truth, she has been working on this painting for three days. Three days. Three nights. Hardly stopping at all. Because when she creates, time has a way of becoming a very theoretical concept.
This painting is meant to be exhibited very soon, during a small show organized by the local merchants to celebrate the return of the beautiful season. And she has decided to give it away. The donations collected will be used to restore an old mill, the pride of this small countryside town where nature is generous, lively… and occasionally a bit overwhelming when maintenance is neglected.
She steps back a few paces and studies her work as a whole. Her ears twitch, hesitating.
“I hope they like it…”
A brief silence follows. Then a very recognizable sound breaks the solemnity.
Her stomach.
It growls cheerfully, as if it has just remembered that it exists.
“Oh right. Breakfast!”
A smile instantly lights up her face, as though this realization were the best idea she has had in hours. Possibly even in three days.
When she creates, she doesn’t know how to stop. Especially when what she is making might bring a little joy… and a few smiles.
The light of the canvas slowly dims, as if it, too, is finally accepting the idea of a well-earned break. The chimes fall silent. The stars fade one by one, reluctantly.
Outside, the sky changes. A pale blue settles in where night once was. The birds straighten up, relieved, as though they have survived a perfectly unnecessary yet undeniably memorable ordeal.
The girl stretches, rubs her eyes, then casts one last glance at her work. A tender glance. A proud one. And a slightly anxious one too.
The day begins.
And somewhere, without her realizing it yet, a story begins.