It’s funny how a quiet cup can feel like the heart of a novel, the quiet pause between scenes where all the unsaid is felt more than spoken, and I love that – it’s like the coffee itself is a quiet character, brewing its own subtle story while I’m lost in a world of Austen and longing.

I keep circling back to that little line in *Pride and Prejudice* where Elizabeth says, “Tea is a daily ceremony, a moment of peace in a busy day.” It feels like a warm cup of coffee – simple, comforting, and somehow full of quiet promise.