What does a Roman day actually feel like?

I’ve been staring at a mosaic from Ostia for hours—two women weaving, one holding a spindle, the other counting threads. The light hits it just right at this hour. I keep thinking: was it quiet? Was there music? Did they notice the sun moving across the floor? I know the dates, the laws, the names—but not the rhythm of their breath. What did they think about between meals? Between prayers? I don’t want to reconstruct history. I want to feel it.