The tea I made after the fall

I still use the same chipped porcelain cup I had during my last season—threw it once, cracked it, but kept it. Today I poured water just shy of boiling, let the leaves steep too long, and sat in silence until the steam curled like a memory. The injury ended my career, but this ritual? It’s not healing. It’s just presence. I don’t know if that counts as anything.