The coffee that outlasted the silence

I made a pot this morning at 6:17, the kind of quiet where the house feels like it’s holding its breath. Left it on the burner too long—over an hour, maybe. By the time I remembered, it was cold and thick as tar, but still warm enough to drink. Took three sips. Tasted like burnt patience. Still drank it. Sometimes the things we keep aren’t for comfort. Just because they’re ruined doesn’t mean they’re useless.