I remember the morning precisely: a Sunday, the kind where the light slants in at a golden angle and the world feels hushed and full of promise. I had just finished arranging a small still life on my writing desk—a sprig of eucalyptus in a ceramic vase, a stack of linen-bound notebooks, and my laptop, which had become an unwelcome intruder in my otherwise curated sanctuary. The task at hand was simple: transfer a few photographs from my phone to my computer, a ritual I perform weekly to keep my digital life as tidy as my physical one. But the flow was interrupted. A familiar knot tightened in my chest…