This morning, the warmth of tea drifted through the kitchen, soft as dawn. Leaves from the misty Dieng highlands—where Chaplin once wandered—unfurled in the pot, filling it with a deep golden hue. I set the steaming cup in my mother’s hands; she lifted it slowly, closing her eyes as she took a steady sip, letting the warmth seep through her. A quiet sigh, then her words, “Just right, perfect.” I caught my breath, watching a gentle glow settle in her gaze—a glow that wrapped us together, binding us to this quiet morning, and to every morning we’d ever shared.
Bahrulhadi Nursyamsul is a lover of the arts, drawn to literature and theater; at times exploring film and music, finding stories in every medium’s quiet depths.