It was made to be steeped —
to swirl in silence,
to release something hidden.

A handful of dried leaves.
Light, brittle, precise.
Folded by time, waiting for warmth.

Someone once measured this by instinct.
No timer. No scale.
Just water, patience, and a practiced pour.

Was it brewed in solitude?
Shared in ceremony?
Offered as comfort after a long day?

We’ll never know.
But the scent still lingers —
earthy, floral, faintly bitter.

Even now, dry and unused,
it carries the memory of a thousand cups
and the quiet moments that surrounded them.

Because some things aren’t just consumed —
they’re part of a rhythm.
A way of pausing.
A way of staying present.