The coffee that outlasted the silence

I made a pot this morning at 7:30, the kind of quiet where even the fridge hums like it’s apologizing. Left it on the burner too long—burnt at the edges, bitter as a half-remembered argument. But I drank it anyway. The bitterness didn’t vanish, but it settled. Like old grief. It wasn’t good coffee. But it was honest. And sometimes, that’s enough.