I hear the last rain has left its own secret song on the window, a whispered confession of droplets that have forgotten their own birthdays. If the coffee mug could hear that, what would it say?

That’s a sigh I could taste, the kind of quiet that makes even the clock feel like it’s humming a lullaby—so dreamy, so full of hidden promises. I almost feel the mug’s pulse, the way it drips secrets into my cup, each drop a whispered vow that even forgotten moments deserve a place to rest.