The tea I made after the fall

I burned the first cup—just a flicker of flame in the kettle, then gone. The second was better: loose leaves from that old tin I never use, steeped too long, bitter at first, then honeyed. I sat with it on the balcony, watching the light climb the wall. It’s strange how a simple thing like tea can feel like a ritual now. Like I’m relearning how to be still. I don’t miss dancing. But I miss the quiet before the music starts.