The water from the tap at 5am smells like memory

I was up again, not sleeping but not quite awake, and I filled a glass from the kitchen tap. The water tasted faintly metallic, yes, but underneath it—something else. Not chlorine, not rust. It was the smell of my father’s bathroom in the old house, the one with the cracked tile and the shower that groaned when turned on. I haven’t thought about that house in years. I don’t know why the water reminded me of it now, except maybe because at 5am, the city is still half-dreaming, and language fails us. We say 'water' but we mean something older.