The kitchen was small. Not in a sad way, more like a cozy way, like it had decided long ago it didn’t need to impress anyone. The cabinets were slightly crooked, the window rattled when the wind got opinionated, and the old radiator made ticking sounds like it was keeping score. But in the soft, amber light of a the morning, the space felt almost enchanted, like it knew how to hold quiet moments just right.

A girl, twenty-four and lately trying to be more intentional, padded in with sleep-flattened hair and a playlist humming gently from her phone. Her robe was too warm for the time of year, but she hadn’t changed out of it because no one had told her not to.

She exhaled and said, mostly to herself, “Let’s make coffee like it might change the course of the day.”

Boil water…

She filled the kettle from the tap with a practiced hand. There was a time she used to measure it, but now she trusted the weight of it in her grip. She set it on the stove and lit the burner, flame crackling like it had gossip to tell.

Grab coffee beans…

The jar of beans sat smugly on the shelf, labeled with masking tape and a slightly smudged “Peru, medium roast.” A gift from a friend, who said it tasted like “hints of brown sugar and knowing what you’re doing.”

Measure out beans & grind…

She measured out the beans with quiet precision, not out of perfectionism, but as a form of gentle self-defense after Sunday’s accidental over caffination. The hand grinder groaned in sympathy, as if it too regretted what had happened.

Grab carafe & filter paper…

The carafe waited by the drying rack, clean and faintly smudged with fingerprints. She found the crumpled pack of filters in the drawer next to old takeout menus, a rogue battery, and some candles.

Place filter paper in carafe…

She folded the edge. A small ritual, like origami for the soul.

Add grounds to filter paper…

The grounds tumbled in, rich and earthy. She gave them a little shake to even them out, the way her grandmother used to pat pie crusts before baking.

Bloom grounds…

The first pour of water hit the grounds and bloomed into a cloud of scent that made the rest of the kitchen hush. It smelled like the inside of a bookstore or a long walk that had no destination.

Pour slowly…

She poured in lazy spirals, watching the dark liquid gather in the carafe like ink in a diary. The window beside her blinked open with sunlight.

Wait…

Waiting. She resisted checking her phone or doing anything else. Instead, she watched the bubbles rise and imagined herself just minutes from now, cradling a warm mug, bathed in sunlight, tasting something rich and comforting, like the morning had finally decided to be kind.

Remove filter…

She lifted the filter gently, like it was a fragile thought, and set it aside in the compost bowl she kept meaning to empty.

Locate optimal seating or standing…

She surveyed her options. The kitchen stool with the wobbly leg? The window ledge with the too-small cushion? She opted for the floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled close. It felt grounded.

Cast judgement…

She took a sip. It was a little too strong. A little too bold. But she liked that about it.

She nodded. “Yeah. That’s right.”

Enjoy life…

The kettle cooled. The playlist switched to something soft and nostalgic. Outside, a breeze moved the curtain just enough to make it dance. She closed her eyes for a moment, not to dream, not to escape, but just to be still.

It wasn’t just a cup of coffee, it was a moment of stillness, a small, quiet kind of peace she could hold in both hands.