Beneath the Surface

The chipped ceramic mug felt rough against my fingertips, a welcome contrast to the slick, almost-too-perfect surfaces that had defined my Paris. Steam curled from the dark liquid, carrying the bitter aroma of coffee and something else, something earthy and unfamiliar. Silas had brewed it himself, from beans he’d roasted over a small, sputtering flame in his cluttered studio, a space that smelled of turpentine, damp soil, and the faint, sweet decay of dried flowers. I watched him, perched on a stool fashioned from salvaged wood, his hands stained with charcoal, his eyes – the color of a storm-tossed sea – fixed on me with an unnerving intensity.

“You’re holding it like a weapon,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet air.

I blinked, my grip tightening instinctively. “It’s… just a mug.”