Pu’er Coffee

 When I push open the shop door in the morning, the first thing I do isn’t turn on the espresso machine—it’s to feel. My fingertips glide across the cool stainless-steel counter. Morning light cuts diagonally through the window, casting a bright triangle onto the wooden table—this very first moment of warmth and shadow becomes the day’s opening, silent image in my mind. I’ve grown used to observing with my eyes. When the grinder growls, the burst of deep brown grounds always reminds me of the soft crunch of leaves underfoot in a quiet forest. Tamping is the silent secret beneath the wrist—a breath-holding motion, soft and deliberate, meant to protect something quiet and unspoken. The amber espresso flows from the portafilter like silk. I crouch down, aligning my lens with the stream, gently tilting the cup to watch the liquid settle and kiss the ice—like a tiny, tender rainfall. People often ask me why I pay attention to such small, fleeting things. I show them the photos in ...

 Coffee and tea are two flavors gifted to life by time: the moment of coffee is a passionate shift between freezing and boiling points, while the moment of tea is a gentle embrace between leaves and the years they’ve endured. Life doesn’t always need to be rushed or constrained; slowing down occasionally, stealing a half-day of peace in the aroma of coffee, is one of the rare and precious joys hidden inside an otherwise ordinary life. For me, truly understanding life — living with calmness and intentional leisure — has always been something I longed for. Like a drifting cloud or a wild crane, free from trivialities and untouched by anxiety. And coffee, somehow, became the symbol of that longing. My affection for it has always been serious and persistent. I still remember the first time I had coffee. I didn’t like that bitter, astringent taste at all. What drew me in was the graceful aura carried by “people who drink coffee.” As if holding a cup automatically granted a sense of rit...