Episode 1 - Monday Sunrise

It’s 5:23 a.m. on a Monday morning. The world outside is still asleep, but she’s awake. She always wakes early on Mondays.

Sliding out of bed, no alarm needed, she pads across the cool hardwood floor of her apartment. The air smells faintly of lavender from the incense she burned last night. Her black cat, Mocha, stretches lazily on the windowsill. Marmalade, the ginger boy, is already sitting by the door, his tail flicking, eager for the start of the day. He knows the routine by now.

She smiles softly as she walks past them, bare feet silent on the floor, and heads straight to her stash. A pre-rolled joint is waiting for her in the dish on her bookshelf, like a little gift from her past self.

The world outside is still wrapped in quiet, the sky just beginning to show the first hints of dawn. No rush, no noise, just the calm of early morning. She loves this time of day—the brief window where everything feels untouched, like the city and the day ahead haven’t had the chance to impose themselves on her yet.

Opening the balcony door, she steps outside, her bare skin meeting the cool morning air. Mocha and Marmalade follow her, settling into their usual spots—Mocha curls into the corner, while Marmalade rolls lazily onto his back, paws in the air, already soaking up whatever warmth he can find.

She brings the joint to her lips, ready for that first drag, that first deep inhale to mark the start of her morning ritual—then freezes. Her lighter is gone. Not on the bookshelf, not in her pocket (which, of course, she isn’t wearing anyway), not anywhere within easy reach. She checks the small pot beside her chair on the balcony. Nothing.

A small flicker of irritation rises in her, just for a moment. But it’s a Monday. She’s not going to let a missing lighter ruin it. Instead, she takes a deep breath, sets the joint down for a second, and walks back inside. The kitchen is still in shadow, cool and quiet, but there’s the gas stove, waiting.

She smiles to herself, almost amused by the absurdity. If life doesn’t give you a lighter, you light your joint with a gas burner.

She flicks the knob, and with a soft click, the blue flames burst to life. Leaning in close, she carefully brings the tip of the joint to the fire. It catches, a small, glowing ember at first, then burning to life. She inhales deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs, holding it there for a moment, savoring the taste, before exhaling in a slow, controlled stream.

Life doesn’t always go how you expect, but there’s always a way. A joint is a joint, whether you light it with a fancy lighter or an old stove. She chuckles under her breath, thinking how it’s almost poetic in its own way. You make the most of what life throws at you. Find the flame wherever it’s waiting.

With her joint lit and peace restored, she walks back out onto the balcony. The sun has started to rise, casting soft pinks and golds over the rooftops, the city stirring slowly beneath her. She takes another drag, feeling the warm smoke swirl in her chest, spreading through her limbs and loosening everything.

Her playlist hums quietly from the speaker inside,Obonjayar’s voice floats to her on the balcony. It’s perfect for this moment. She leans back into her wicker chair, letting the smoke drift out of her lungs as she exhales.

Mocha has curled up into a ball by the chair, a sleek black shadow in the dawn light, while Marmalade is sprawled out like a king on the warm concrete, paws stretched out, not a care in the world. She envies their simplicity sometimes—their effortless ability to live fully in each moment without questioning it. Without second-guessing.

The joint burns down slowly between her fingers as the sun rises higher, painting the sky in gold and orange. She watches it happen without feeling the need to rush or think too hard about it. This is enough. Right here, right now.

Living in the moment. The phrase crosses her mind again, but she doesn’t dwell on it. She just lets it float, like the wisps of smoke curling into the air around her. Maybe it’s the weed, or maybe it’s the sunrise, but there’s a clarity in this moment. A sense that life doesn’t have to be anything more than this—naked, smoking a joint on a balcony, watching the world wake up.

Her phone buzzes somewhere inside, probably an email or a notification from work, but she ignores it. That world will come soon enough, with all its noise and demands. For now, she’s content to just be here, with the cats, the sun, the smoke, and the music.

She watches as the last of the joint burns down to ash, flicking the remnants into the small pot beside her chair. The day is starting, the city waking beneath her, but she doesn’t feel the need to rush. She’ll move when she’s ready. There’s power in that—knowing you can move at your own pace, that you don’t have to bend to the world’s rhythm if you don’t want to.

Mocha shifts slightly in her sleep, curling tighter into herself, while Marmalade stretches luxuriously, blinking lazily up at the rising sun. She feels like them at this moment—unhurried, grounded, content.

Life doesn’t always give you what you want, she thinks, but sometimes it gives you exactly what you need in a way you didn’t expect. Like a gas burner lighting your joint when you can’t find your lighter. You make do. You make the most of it. And sometimes, that’s where the magic is.

She takes a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin, the cool air in her lungs, the last hint of smoke still hanging in the air around her. The day will come. The noise, the rush, the endless stream of tasks and expectations. But for now, she’s here. Living in the moment.