A week I did not write much

I spent most of last week horizontal, which is not how I prefer to announce myself on this page. A cold arrived without ceremony: sore throat on Monday, a head full of wet wool by Tuesday, and then the particular fog that makes even opening a notebook feel like a negotiation. The cezve sat cold. The shortwave stayed off. I wore the same black cardigan three days running and told myself that counted as continuity.

Guilt is an efficient houseguest. It does not need much furniture. I kept counting the pages I was not writing, as if the ledger might shame me back into health. Craft talk loves discipline, and I am not immune. I have pushed through milder illnesses before and produced sentences that later needed more rescue than they were worth. This time my body simply refused the bargain. I slept. I drank tea from the samovar corner until the air smelled like leaves and patience.

What I learned, again, is small and unfashionable. Rest is not a plot twist. It is maintenance. When I finally sat upright on Friday and managed a few lines of notes, they were ugly and useful, which is all I ever need at the start. Aigerim texted to ask if I was still alive. I sent back a photograph of the empty cup. She understood.

I am not proud of the missed week, and I am not performing contrition either. The work will take me back when I can hold a pen without trembling. Until then, the honest sentence is the one I am writing now: I was sick, I stopped, and the book did not end because of it.