Tuesday, 14 March. 7°C, low cloud, rain by lunch.
Wake at 6:42, fifteen minutes before the alarm. The first photograph of the day is of a coffee cup at 6:58 — taken absent-mindedly, in low light, the way she takes coffee photographs every other Tuesday. 0 steps until 7:20, then 2,140 between 7:20 and 8:05 — the school run, by foot.
Three voice notes between 9:00 and 11:30, all under thirty seconds. The first one is about a paper she’s reading. The second one is about her mother. The third one is about whether the kitchen window seals properly.
Lunch alone at a place she has visited eleven times since October. The same song played twice on the walk back.
Afternoon: 2h 40m at the desk, then a 45-minute walk in the rain that doesn’t show up in any photograph — only in the GPS trace.
Evening: dinner with the family. No photographs. One short journal line at 22:14: “He laughed at something I didn’t catch.”
One year earlier, same Tuesday: different city, same coffee cup. Different song. Different rain.