My hand finds the kettle before my eyes are properly open. It's not a decision — I couldn't tell you the last time I decided to make tea. I just wake up, and some part of me that isn't fully awake yet is already crossing the kitchen, already lifting it off the stove to fill it.

It's a white enamel kettle with a wooden handle that has gone smooth and warm from years of morning hands, and it whistles in three stages if you actually listen for them — a long quiet phase, then a simmering hum, then a proper whistle. The label on the bottom wore off a while ago, so I couldn't tell you its exact name if you asked, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.

I don't think the kettle itself is the point. I think the point is that my body knows what to do before my brain has clocked in. There's something steadying about a single motion you don't have to think about, on a morning when everything else is going to require thinking.

Everyone has one of these, I'd guess. A mug. A pair of socks by the bed. The specific chair. The thing your hand just goes to.