I finally fixed the coffee grinder

It had been grinding unevenly for months—like a tiny, stubborn heart struggling to beat right. I took it apart last night, cleaned the burrs with a toothbrush and a whisper of olive oil, and suddenly it was humming like something remembered its purpose. I don’t know why that small thing moved me so much, but I stood there in the kitchen, watching steam rise from the first perfect pour, and for a second, I felt like I’d stitched back a piece of my old self—the one who still believed in precision, in quiet repairs. The rest of the house is still a mess, but this? This felt like a kind of grace.