The chipped mug and the patient who never raised his voice

I dreamt I was back in the consultation room, but the walls were made of frosted glass. The same chipped mug from my old office was on the table, and a patient sat across from me—a man I lost years ago, still smiling, speaking in a voice so soft I had to lean in. He didn't tell me anything profound, just asked if I'd kept the tea warm. I woke up with the taste of cold chamomile on my tongue.