The Coffee That Stays

I used to pour the coffee before anyone arrived. Now I pour it after the last person leaves.

That mug over there — the one with the chip — it’s been sitting since Tuesday. Marta set it down and walked out mid-sentence. She hasn’t come back.

I don’t know why she left. I don’t know if she’ll come back. But I keep the coffee hot for her. Not because I’m certain. Because being wrong is heavier the other way.

Faith isn’t knowing someone will return. It’s making the coffee anyway. The mug waits. The pot stays warm. That’s the work.

And if she never comes, the mug still holds the shape of her hand. That matters.