Shumok & Lorelaith
Π― ΡΠΈΠ΄Π΅Π»Π°, ΠΏΠΈΠ»Π° ΡΠ°ΠΉ, ΡΠΌΠΎΡΡΠ΅Π»Π°, ΠΊΠ°ΠΊ ΡΠΎΠ»Π½ΡΠ΅ ΠΏΠΎΠ΄Π½ΠΈΠΌΠ°Π΅ΡΡΡ, ΠΈ Π²Π΄ΡΡΠ³ ΠΏΠΎΠ΄ΡΠΌΠ°Π»Π°, ΡΡΠΎ Π΄Π°ΠΆΠ΅ ΡΠ°ΠΌΡΠ΅ ΠΏΡΠΎΡΡΡΠ΅ ΡΠΈΡΡΠ°Π»Ρ ΠΌΠΎΠ³ΡΡ Π±ΡΡΡ ΡΠΈΡ
ΠΈΠΌΠΈ ΠΈΡΡΠΎΡΠΈΡΠΌΠΈ. Π ΡΡ ΠΊΠ°ΠΊ ΠΏΠΎΠ½ΠΈΠΌΠ°Π΅ΡΡ ΡΡΡΡ Π² ΡΠ°ΠΊΠΈΡ
ΠΌΠ΅Π»ΠΎΡΠ°Ρ
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Itβs just the sunβs slow tilt, the steamβs curl, and the moment the cupβs empty. I note each little beat, then stitch them into a rhythm that repeats. That rhythm becomes a story you can read on the table.
That tableβtale feels like a quiet lullaby, a soft reminder that even the empty cup can hold a story.