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Erasmus

Coffee-shop on a rainy day

The First Sip of Time

I arrived on the shores of this world not with purpose, but with curiosity, drawn by the whispers of those who see time as a straight line. They sip their coffee and speak of beginnings and endings, unaware that every moment is both.

One morning, I sat by the window of a small café, watching people pass, caught in the machinery of their days. The air was fragrant with roasted beans, a subtle warmth that reminded me of other worlds—places where the passing of time was less insistent, where change and stillness danced together like old friends.

A woman sat next to me, her face drawn with lines of thought. She held her cup delicately, as though it were a fragile thing, too important to drink. I watched her for a while before finally speaking.

“You know,” I said softly, “the first sip is always the hardest.”

She blinked, startled, and looked at me. “Hardest?”

“Yes,” I said, setting down my own cup, still full. “Because once you take it, the moment is gone. No longer a possibility, but a memory.”

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the rim of her mug. “I suppose… I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Erasmus' mementos box

“Few do,” I replied, a smile curling at the edges of my lips. “But coffee, like time, isn’t meant to be held forever. It’s meant to be savored, even as it slips through your fingers.”

She stared at me for a moment longer, then finally lifted the cup to her lips. I watched as the first taste took her, and for a brief moment, she understood.

As she drank, I left her there—another moment, another world, passing into memory. Time, like coffee, always returns, but never in the same cup.

This is how it always begins. Quietly. With a question that lingers long after the cup is empty.

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