The clear glass at the end of the counter

Dear Delyara, The pub down the lane was roaring tonight—live fiddles, boots stomping on the timber floor, and the rich, roasted smell of stout drifting right out into the damp street as I walked past. Two years ago, I would have been at the center table, three hours deep into a blackout, spending my wages before my family even knew I had been paid. Tonight, I walked right past the fogged windows, came upstairs to my small room, and poured myself a tall glass of spring water. I sat by the window, looked at my reflection in the dark glass, and didn't feel a single pull toward the dark. My mind is sharp, my hands are strong, and for the first time in my life, I am the one steering my own soul home.