Gentle Steam

I crept past the wooden fruit bowl on the dining table, keeping low so my head stayed below the rim. Right ahead, a smooth ceramic mug stood quietly, releasing a thin ribbon of pale steam that twisted lazily through the morning air. I froze, watching the phantom shape curl toward the ceiling. Holding my breath, I tentatively reached out one claw and sliced through the warm vapor. It scattered into faint wisps, brushing softly against my whiskers before vanishing. I leaped back half a step, clamping my paws defensively over my horns—but nothing pulled or burned. The mist simply drifted away, leaving a gentle warmth behind.