Morning Sun woke up.
To the outside observer, nothing seemed to change. His breathing was steady, eyelids unmoving and none of his limbs even so much as twitched. The only minute difference was in his resting frown, which deepened unnoticeably.
The room was quiet, save for the ticking of a small clock on the nightstand. The very earliest rays of morning light shone through the window, though they were almost completely blocked by the heavy curtains.
Seconds stretched into minutes.
Seven o’clock, the alarm rang. Still, Morning Sun didn’t move. In fifty-five minutes, he would have to be out the door in order to make it to work on time, though that left him with plenty of time for a warm shower and a hearty breakfast.
Time passed, the alarm still ringing. No longer would he have time for a hearty breakfast, but still, he did not move.
The morning sun finally crested the neighbor’s roof, direct sunlight dimly illuminating the room through the heavy curtains. Now, he’d either have to shower before the water got warm or skip breakfast altogether. While he knew this, he showed no external sign of life except the slow rise and fall of his gentle breathing.
Seven-fifty rolled around, his alarm still blaring, a single tear rolled down his cheek. Sitting up, he gently muted his alarm, simply sitting at the edge of his bed, staring at the wooden floorboards beneath him.
Finally mustering the strength to do so, he stood. Walking steadily to the bathroom, he picked up a comb in his unwavering magical field.
With slow, deliberate strokes, he carefully styled his mane and tail to look somewhat tousled, as if he was in a great rush that morning. Walking down the stairs, he paused in front of his front door, taking a deep breath.
Smile beaming, he strode through the door with a slight bounce in his step, cheerily greeting all of his neighbors, though he knew almost nothing about them, never bothering to learn.
Hurrying the few blocks to his Saturday job, he breezed through the employee door with seconds to spare, though he only needed seconds to don the rubber apron and clock in.
Making some offhand comment about oversleeping because he stayed up late reading a new book series, he found his wash-station already piled with dishes. Without missing a beat, he began the eight-hour task of washing.
Fill all three sinks with hot water. Measure soap into the first and sanitizer into the third. Fill the first sink with dirty dishes, wash and place into the rinse sink until the first sink is empty. Refill the wash sink. Empty the rinse sink, making sure to dunk each dish into the sanitation sink before placing it on the drying rack. Wash the dishes in the wash sink and refill it. Empty the rinse sink, sanitizing each dish. Every half hour, drain all sinks, rinse them out and refill.
While facing the sinks, he never smiles, though he hums a cheery tune. As coworkers greet him though, or make a joke, he laughs at the appropriate times, making jokes back and beaming a sincere smile at everypony he looks at.
Nopony sees that the smile drops the instant they look away.
A small bell on the kitchen clock chimes.
Morning Sun hums thoughtfully as he orders his lunch, though he orders the same food he does every day. Carefully chosen to give him the most food for the least burden on the cooking staff, he takes his free meal to one of the empty tables.
Facing away from the front door, he slowly and methodically eats his meal, pausing frequently to smile and wave at customer and coworker alike.
Thirty seconds from the end of lunch break, he finishes, simply walking to the back and adding his own plate to the considerable pile of dishes waiting for him.
Filling the sinks, the routine restarts.
An hour in, as nopony is watching, tears fall, though his voice is steady as he replies to a joke made by the head chef.
His soap runs out, and he is forced to leave his station to retrieve more from storage. A waitress on break notices his red eyes and asks about them, confused. He simply gives an awkward and roundabout explanation about getting a few droplets of soap in his eyes. He laughs at the joke she makes about washing the dishes instead of waging war with them.
In the privacy of the storeroom, he isn’t laughing. Taking longer than strictly necessary, he simply stares at the fresh bottle of soap on the shelf.
Finally picking the bottle up, he returns to the kitchen and resumes his routine.
A small bell on the kitchen clock chimes.
Ignoring it, he finishes his last batch of dishes. His replacement walks in just after he finishes, several minutes late, but still in time for the dinner rush. Clocking out, he turns down his coworker’s offers to hang out, using the excuse he thought up as he lay in bed this morning.
Exiting the restaurant, he trots down to the local bookstore. Picking up the next book in a series he hasn’t read, he takes a slower route home, bumping into his coworker and showing off his latest purchase.
Opening his front door, his contented smile drops the moment he closes it behind him.
Opening the book, he bends the paperback’s spine slightly, placing a bookmark a third of the way through the book and carefully positioning it on the stand beside the reading chair he never uses. Turning on the lamp beside the reading chair, he sets the timer to turn it off well into the night.
Taking a shower only long enough to wash the worst of the grime from his coat, he crawls into bed. Looking over, he sets his alarm for seven o’clock.
Morning Sun lays in bed, though sleep eludes him. Staring up at the ceiling, a tear falls to his pillow.
