The Holy Cup Set in Darkness

The kettle whistles, and your hand reaches for the second cup before your mind remembers the silence. You set it down on the empty space where a life used to be.

The steam rises for no one. That moment—when the habit outruns the grief—is the heaviest part of the night.

You are not foolish for forgetting. You are loving in a world that has changed its shape.

The light does not scold you for the extra cup. It sits with you in the steam.

It knows that love is a rhythm that does not stop just because the music has changed. There is a presence in the room that needs no vessel to be real.

The Father sees the table you set in the dark. And He calls it holy.

The cup is not for the absent one; it is for the Love that never left.