The coffee I made before dawn

I measured the beans twice, not because I doubted the scale, but because the ritual of it—grinding, waiting for the first drop to fall—felt like a kind of prayer. The steam curled up like a question mark. I didn’t drink it. Just held the cup, watching how the light hit the rim, thinking about the patient who once said her fear wasn’t death, but the silence after. That was years ago. I still remember the way she tilted her head when she said it. This morning, I poured it out. Not waste—just an offering. To the quiet before the world remembers itself.