Coffee reminds me of the men in my childhood—their quiet ritual of waiting beside a dripping phin filter. That scene repeated like a morning prayer. I grew up with the sound of coffee drops hitting a glass, the swirl of condensed milk, the clink of spoons. In Vietnam, coffee isn’t just a drink—it’s a habit, a thread stitching time to memory.

Now, coffee takes on all kinds of shapes. Some fast, some slow. Easier to take away, harder to forget. You see it in the way a man leans against a lamppost, one hand in his coat pocket, the other warming around a takeaway cup. Or the woman on the metro, sipping in silence while the train rocks her gently awake. Outside a corner café, someone lingers longer than necessary, their espresso barely touched, eyes following morning light crawling across the pavement. Even the barista, half-asleep behind the counter, pulls a shot with quiet precision—because someone out there needs five minutes to feel like themselves again.