In the highlands now called Honduras, the mountains rise in quiet majesty, their ridges wrapped in mist where sun and shadow meet. Here, the land does not choose extremes — warmth and coolness, brightness and calm — instead, they weave together into a single rhythm. From this balance, the coffee trees draw their strength, bearing fruit touched by harmony itself.
Amira walked these ridges, guided by the steady breath of the hills. The villagers welcomed her with open hands, speaking of their harvest not as possession but as covenant. They roasted beans over open flame, their fragrance rising with the dawn — smooth and steady, alive yet calm. She drank, and tasted the middle path: a cup carrying neither the weight of night nor the spark of first light, but the strength that lies between.
By the fire, the elders spoke. In seasons past, they said, coffee was not brewed alone. At times the forest was invited into the cup — gifts born of rain and shadow, believed to carry their own quiet wisdom. Their voices were gentle, their words careful, yet their meaning undeniable. And Amira knew this was not the first time she had heard such counsel. In distant lands, too, whispers had reached her — of cups made deeper by what the forest gave.
That night, they pressed such a cup into her hands. Coffee, joined with the forest. She drank, hesitant, and felt something stir within. Her thoughts grew clear, yet not restless. Her breath deepened, her steps steadied. She felt… somehow different. It was not a promise spoken, but a truth revealed — harmony made living in her own body.
As dawn returned to the mountains, Amira knew this path had found her as surely as she had found it. The memory of the forest belonged in the cup. And she would carry it forward — so that others too might feel the earth and the forest speak together, as one.
Amira walked these ridges, guided by the steady breath of the hills. The villagers welcomed her with open hands, speaking of their harvest not as possession but as covenant. They roasted beans over open flame, their fragrance rising with the dawn — smooth and steady, alive yet calm. She drank, and tasted the middle path: a cup carrying neither the weight of night nor the spark of first light, but the strength that lies between.
By the fire, the elders spoke. In seasons past, they said, coffee was not brewed alone. At times the forest was invited into the cup — gifts born of rain and shadow, believed to carry their own quiet wisdom. Their voices were gentle, their words careful, yet their meaning undeniable. And Amira knew this was not the first time she had heard such counsel. In distant lands, too, whispers had reached her — of cups made deeper by what the forest gave.
That night, they pressed such a cup into her hands. Coffee, joined with the forest. She drank, hesitant, and felt something stir within. Her thoughts grew clear, yet not restless. Her breath deepened, her steps steadied. She felt… somehow different. It was not a promise spoken, but a truth revealed — harmony made living in her own body.
As dawn returned to the mountains, Amira knew this path had found her as surely as she had found it. The memory of the forest belonged in the cup. And she would carry it forward — so that others too might feel the earth and the forest speak together, as one.
