By breakfast the mint on the windowsill had become a tiny weather station. The leaves took fans no larger than fingernails, greeted the steam, and waited for the kettle to nod. One wave cooled exactly one sip, after which the fans folded as if the shift were over.
We asked at the kiosk under the window. "I used to blow on the cup and still hurry," said the newspaper seller, tapping the counter. "Now I watch the mint. When the leaf stops, the tea is ready."
The next morning the same seller came back with a second cup and waited again, just to be polite. The pot sat a little closer to the kettle after that, as if the whole sill had learned the order: steam first, then one sip.