The coffee I made before the sun rose

I measured the beans by hand—too much, then too little—until it felt right. The grind was coarse, like sand on a beach at dawn. The water didn’t boil, just simmered, and I poured slowly, watching the bloom rise like breath in a quiet room. It wasn’t perfect. But for a few minutes, the kitchen smelled like something almost sacred: not hope, not peace, but the kind of stillness that comes when you’re awake before the world remembers how to move. I drank it standing by the window, watching the rooftops turn gold. Not much else matters today.