Tea
The morning sunrise trickles in the window, the light kissing her nose to gently wake her. Bones protesting, she gets up and makes her way down the stairs towards the only luxury she is allowed. Tea. The shiny steel of the kettle meets the cold sink as it gets its fill of water. It must’ve been thirsty all night. A hungry fire is fed as it warms it up from the bottom. She recites the familiar poem of tea-making, whispering love into each and every verse:
