"A latte, please," she says, hands shaking—was it the caffeine or the realization?
The cashier, transfixed by the steam's dance, waits.
Do shadows cast by others' coats influence where puddles form?
"Medium roast for a medium life," a voice echoes; could it be theirs?
When contemplating our sequences, one risk mirrors another—a step into the unknown, where every intentional coffee spill holds the potential for profound revelation. Is life merely compiling these traces, hoping to laugh about them someday? I mean, look at the stages we juggle: