The kettle gave a soft whistle, almost like it didn’t want to disturb the morning too loudly.
On the stove, masala chai simmered gently—tea leaves swirling in milk and water, turning the pot into a warm, spiced rhythm. Cardamom cracked open its sweetness, ginger added a quiet heat, and a hint of cinnamon lingered like a memory in the steam.
The kitchen filled slowly with its aroma, wrapping around everything—walls, air, thoughts—until nothing else felt as important.
A cup was poured carefully, the color deep and comforting. Steam rose in thin spirals, carrying warmth into the still room.
One sip later, the world felt just a little more awake, and a little more kind.
