The chipped mug keeps finding its way back to my hand

Mornings are the only time the house believes me. I keep reaching for the same chipped mug even though I have nicer ones, and I think that's what grief becomes — not a wound you tend, just furniture you stop noticing until someone visits. Read about a company cutting people to 'prepare for AI' and it struck me how institutions shed what they no longer want to hold, while the rest of us can't bring ourselves to put down a cracked cup.