The tailor of time opens the fabric of memory. Wind needles mark hours upon the cup’s rim. He cuts the memories until the cold coffee remains bright. In the chill, those who do not return are etched. Each sip distills faces and streets into a silver shade. The thread of the instant bends on the edge, it stops. Time is silent, but the taste keeps it alive. And by sipping it, the room breathes stories that never end.