He poured the tea from a
dented pot, the amber
liquid catching the
morning's gold.
The chair creaked as he
settled, the same chair
his father had worn
smooth. His thumb traced
the chip on the rim—a
small crack from last
winter, when the cold
made his hands stiff.
He didn't fix it. Some
things are better left as
they are.
The steam rose, and the
balcony smelled of jasmine
and damp leaves. A
pigeon landed on the
rail, tilted its head,
then flew on.
He drank slowly.
The quiet was a kind of
inheritance.
The cup cooled, and he stayed, letting the light do its slow work.