The quiet click of kitten heels on hardwood is the sound that brackets Doctor Nika Tolstoy’s days. Being so early to rise and so late to sleep was rare, for a teenager. He had long since given up on trying to get her to sleep more, the girl tended to be like a grandfather clock the way that any interruption to her pendulum-like schedule would send her into disarray.

There was a benefit to living with an early bird, as well. Early risers tended to beget other early risers. While he had never been a slouch himself, it was quite easy to wake at a neat 5:15 every morning when that seemed to be the exact time his charge would make her pilgrimage down to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Her eccentricities were always the sort of things that reminded him of himself at that age, it was hard not to want to encourage her when she was growing so steadily into a mirror of himself.

He had his own routines, his internal clock just as steady and sure. By the time she had put the kettle on and then wandered off to finish getting ready for her day, he would already be on his way down to turn down the heat of the stove so the water wouldn’t boil too hot. She was always back downstairs by time the tea was brewed.

The two typically shared quiet mornings. There was always a hint of gloating pride as he sat and murmured about current news and happenings with his daughter as if she were a colleague. Who said children were so difficult? There was nothing but ease in raising her, he had little to do but to smooth out the occasional coarse edge or imperfection.