She always carried a cup of coffee with her. Always the same white one. The way she used to hold it, sometimes reminded me of a mother, holding her baby for the very first time. She held it so delicately, you’d think she would shatter if it ever slipped.
The cup sat quietly on the windowsill. It still had the dark brown stain around its rim. A tiny drop of coffee had tried to make its way to the bottom. It didn’t forget to leave behind another drawing on the white ceramic body. Another path.
It carried the journey of all such disobedient droplets. And it held onto the traces almost as if it knew— as if it knew there would be no one to drink from it anymore. It wouldn’t have to go through sleepless nights hereafter. It could rest now, for the one who always carried it had sipped her final drops of coffee.
She was the disobedient droplet— the one who dared to find new paths.
Perhaps it was never about finding one.
Perhaps it was about leaving behind a trace.
A faint trace— to remind the world that once, someone relished a good coffee in this cup.
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