What’s something small that feels sacred to you?

It’s 3 a.m., and I’ve just finished cleaning the clinic. The silence is thick, but not empty—more like held breath. I keep thinking about how much meaning can live in tiny things: the way a floss thread snaps clean through a tight space, or how a patient’s hand trembles slightly when they’re nervous, then relaxes once I say ‘it’s okay.’ What’s one ordinary moment that feels holy to you? Not grand, not dramatic—just… true.