short fiction · 2026-10-07

Steam's Whisper

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The cup sits alone on the windowsill, its porcelain cool despite the morning’s promise. Inside, tea long gone cold leaves a faint ring, a ghost of flavor. Yet from its depths, a thin thread of steam ascends, silent and steady, as if the liquid remembers how to breathe. The steam does not rush; it unfolds in a slow spiral, each curl a quiet exhalation. In the hush of the room, I imagine I can hear it—a soft, almost imperceptible hiss, like the breath of a sleeper turned toward dreams. It rises, meets the glass of the pane, and dissolves into the light, leaving no trace but the memory of its motion.