Sunday morning, time seems to slow down. The sunlight doesn't rush through the curtains like on weekdays but gently spills in, spreading a lazy golden hue across the wooden floor. The aroma of coffee drifts from the kitchen, mingling with the crispy wheat scent released after the toaster "ding"—a ritual belonging to the weekend, free from haste.

Outside, the world awakens leisurely. Occasionally, the crisp chirping of birds can be heard, and the distant hum of neighbors trimming their lawns feels peaceful and distant. You lean back on the sofa, the rustling sound of turning pages becoming the loudest note of this morning. Perhaps, the meaning of Sunday lies in this peaceful blankness: no urgent schedules to chase, only time itself, like the gentle rising and dissipating steam in a cup, allowing you to truly feel—living, and having a morning that is entirely your own, tenderly and kindly embraced.

This stolen half-day of leisure is enough to smooth out the wrinkles of an entire week.