There's a particular quality of light in my kitchen at 6:47 AM that I've only noticed because of tea. Before I started this morning ritual, I was never awake to see it. Now I arrange my day around it—that golden slice of sun that hits the counter for exactly twelve minutes, warming my hands and my cup together.

It moves with the seasons, this light. In summer it arrives earlier, angled differently, catching the steam in ways that winter light can't quite manage. I've become a student of these small variations.

People ask what got me into tea, expecting some romantic story about travel or tradition. The truth is simpler: I wanted to see the morning light.