A Cup of Quiet Joy

When I visited Vic’s place recently, my eyes landed on a travel mug tucked away in the cupboard. It was one I had gifted him long ago - printed with Kenzo’s smiling face in bright red, frozen in a moment of pure childhood joy.

The mug wasn’t spotless, nor was it forgotten. It bore the faint signs of use - not daily, but enough to show it had been part of his life. A quiet presence in his mornings, perhaps, or a companion on days he needed comfort.

I brought it home and placed it beside my own, almost instinctively. A piece of him, of us, now resting in my kitchen.

He never said much about those little gifts I gave - the mugs, the photo prints, the small tokens that carried Kenzo’s image. But I know, deep down, they meant something. Because how could they not? To see your son’s laughter etched into something so ordinary, to hold it in your hands as you sipped your coffee - surely, it must have brought him joy.

And maybe, in those quiet moments, it reminded him that no matter the distance or the silence between us, Kenzo’s smile was always a bridge.

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