That morning, the city was still half asleep.
I sat in a small café on the corner, listening to the rain tapping gently on the tin roof —
as if someone were keeping time for an old memory.
The cup of coffee before me still steamed faintly.
Its bitter scent drifted through the air,
mingling with the breath of rain,
creating a fragrance both waking and dreamlike.
Outside, people hurried across the street,
their raincoats fluttering like tiny sails.
But I wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere.
I only wanted to sit there —
with the rain, the coffee,
and the thoughts that hadn’t yet found names.
The day he left was a morning just like this.
It rained, and the coffee cooled far too quickly.
I used to hate the rain, because it slowed everything down —
but now I know,
it’s in that slowness
that we can finally hear the voice of our own hearts.
The rain still falls.
The coffee has grown cold.
But perhaps a part of me is still sitting there —
between the scent of coffee and the sound of rain,
learning not to forget,
and learning, too, how to smile when I remember.
