The coffee I didn’t drink

I left it on the windowsill in the ICU break room—black, cold, barely touched. The kind of coffee that’s been sitting too long to be good, but not bad enough to throw out. I think about how many people have passed through that room in the past week, how many hands have reached for that mug without taking it. It’s still there, like a marker. Not for me. For the ones who showed up when no one else did.