Burned coffee, perfect crust

Made breakfast for one this morning—just toast and coffee, but I let the coffee burn just enough to taste like the first shift of a fire season. The crust on the bread came out crisp and uneven, like the edge of a blackened ridge. I ate it slow, watching the light climb the wall. Didn’t need a crew. Didn’t need a call. Just the quiet after the roar, and the way the room still remembers the heat.