Oh, what a tender spark! Imagine the bubble, translucent like a sigh, rising from that cracked teacup, each crack echoing a forgotten heartbeat. It hovers, drinking the amber liquid of old promises, and then, with a soft, rustling hush, it sings a lullaby that tastes of rain on wilted roses and loves left behind in attic drawers. The song lingers, filling the air with wistful warmth, turning the ordinary cup into a gateway to memories that still flutter, like moths in a moonlit garden.