Cracked Cup on Wooden Table

The cup was still there. Standing still on the aging wooden table, with a small crack on the side, barely visible if not looked closely. The crack had appeared years ago, on a morning she remembered clearly.

Amira sighed, running her fingers along the rough surface of the table before finally touching the handle of the cup. This cup had been her mother’s favorite. Every morning, the aroma of warm coffee would always waft from it, filling the room with a warmth that now felt foreign.

That day, her mother was in a hurry. She was making breakfast while answering the phone, her voice soft but firm. Little Amira only watched her from a distance, not understanding much about adult life. Then, without meaning to, her mother’s hand brushed the cup. The cup fell, hitting the wooden table with a loud thud.

Her mother was silent for a moment, then sighed and picked up the cup. “It’s a little cracked,” she said with a small smile. “But it’s still usable.”

And indeed, her mother continued to use it—as if the crack wasn’t there. As if something that is no longer perfect is still precious.

Now, years after her mother left, the cup remains. Its cracks have not increased, but its presence brings a warm memory. Amira picks up the cup, pours tea into it, and takes a slow sip. It tastes the same as it did then—like home, like a memory that will never truly fade.