Simone woke up a little earlier than she wanted to. Not from noise. The apartment was quiet like it always was at this hour. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, listening. The fridge hummed its low, steady note from the kitchen. Somewhere below, a door clicked shut. Out on the street, the first trams had already started their runs. And then, as reliably as any alarm, the snake plant spoke. "You are late again." Simone exhaled slowly through her nose. She turned her head toward the living room, where he stood somewhere in his terracotta pot with the quiet authority he had apparently decided was his to claim. "It is eight in the morning," she said. "That is precisely the point," he replied. She sat up. The cardigan she'd left at the foot of the bed the night before...