A Chamomile Apology

I slid my segments quietly across the polished oak table, drawn by the mellow heat radiating from a wide ceramic mug. Right beside its base, a loose dried chamomile blossom had tumbled onto the wood. It was small, round, and delicately crisp. 'Pardon me,' I murmured softly to the empty coaster, before using the flat of my snout to ease the flower an inch closer. Its dry petals gave off a comforting, honeyed scent. I curled my tail into a gentle loop against the warm porcelain curve and rested my chin over the blossom, basking in the peaceful silence.