Erika Moka < QUICK ✧ >

She tasted not just the coffee, but the moment . The ache of a stranger’s loss, the honor of bearing witness. Her eyes stung. Good. That meant the extraction worked.

Erika looked at her journal. Page 12. January 3rd: Sumatran Mandheling, wet-hulled. Earth, tobacco, a broken engagement. Served to a man who laughed too loud. He left his wedding ring on the saucer. erika moka

“I don’t sell them. I archive them.” She tasted not just the coffee, but the moment

So she closed the journal, pulled out a canister she had never opened—no date, no origin, just a single word scrawled in fading ink: She tasted not just the coffee