Make the Coffee

The real world returns with the persistent, annoying chirp of an alarm clock.

Chad groans, slapping the 'off' button with more **** than necessary. He sits up, his mind already calculating the day’s tasks—unloading the heavy crates of car parts, checking the structural beams in the basement, and making sure the kids aren't "slacking off" on the unpacking. He doesn't look at Cherie as he rolls out of bed and heads for the en-suite shower.

Cherie remains under the covers for a moment, her eyes fluttering open. The dream is still vivid—the sensation of the warm mug, the quiet peace of the kitchen, and that presence. She feels... lighter.

She climbs out of bed, pulling on a thin, floral robe. As she walks down the stairs, she’s bracing herself for the chaos of yesterday—boxes everywhere, the smell of dust, the sink full of dirty pizza napkins.

She enters the kitchen and stops dead.

The boxes are still there, yes, but sitting prominently on the counter is a single ceramic mug. It’s steaming. She walks over, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't make coffee. Chad certainly didn't—he’s still upstairs.

She looks into the mug. It’s exactly what she had in the dream. Dark roast, a hint of hazelnut, a splash of cream. The aroma is identical.

The house is silent, save for the muffled sound of the shower upstairs. Cherie's hand trembles as she picks up the mug. It’s hot. It’s real. She looks toward the darkened hallway, a mix of profound confusion and a strange, budding thrill.

"Chad?" she calls out tentatively. No answer.

She takes a sip. It’s perfect.

You are floating in the corner of the ceiling, watching her, bolstered by the spike of "wonder" and "gratitude" she just radiated.