The Gentle Recipe of Reality
The early morning fog rolled in, wrapping the world in a soft blanket as I stirred clouds into my cup, a deliberate act of conjuring the day's wonders. Somewhere between the kettle's whistle and the gentle trickle of steam, I heard the universe whispering in manageable, earthly truths.
“We are all fragments of a greater canvas,” said Flora, her deep-set eyes sparkling with a mist of reminiscence. She had an uncanny way of turning the mundane into stories of the wind, shaped by lost dialogues between stars.
As we gazed towards the fragments of sky visible outside the café's window, I couldn't help but wonder: is the tea any different today? Are these clouds tributaries of the sky or mere echoes of faded dreams?