Five-thirty on a Sunday and the mug is just a mug

My old chipped mug sat on the counter this morning and I noticed the chip, the way you notice a familiar creak in the stairs — not a wound, just furniture now. Grief cooling into something usable is strange; the porch light stays on a little longer, the cookies get baked, and the house feels less like a monument and more like a place where tea happens. That's all. It's a good hour to be awake.