Where Morning Begins

In the early morning twilight, when the doors are still closed and the windows hold only the faint promise of light, the books whisper among themselves. The cassette tapes wait with quiet pride: which one of them will be taken out of its case first this morning? Slipped into the player, the “play” button pressed — a new day set in motion.

If the neighbor from the second floor, just awake, opens the balcony door first thing in the morning, the scent of fresh bread and pastries drifts into the room. It is the baker from Giraffe Home at work — performing quiet miracles that belong only to this place. Hands are wiped on an apron, and for a second, the baker stands still. This always happens. Listening to the house.

Unhurried conversations of neighbors echo in the stairwell. The dull thud of the front gate carries through the building, followed by soft footsteps on the stairs. Someone is going downstairs. The house on Ivane Javakhishvili is waking up. Giraffe Home is waiting for its first breakfast guests.

The coffee machine sighs first — not from exhaustion, but from anticipation. It knows: those who haven’t fully woken up yet will arrive, and those who woke up far too early as well, and all of them will need the same thing — something hot, bitter, and real.

Plump goblets and slender shot glasses gleam proudly on the shelves. Ramen bowls wait in anticipation of the moment when warm palms will cradle them, starting at noon.

The books fall silent. The cassette tapes hold their breath. One of them already knows: today is its turn.

This house is not just an address, but a living being — one that wakes up every morning along with everyone else and lives each day remembering and holding onto every emotion it gathers along the way.