A Drop of Morning Dew

The morning light crept onto the wooden windowsill, stirring me from beneath the trailing leaves. Stepping onto the warm timber, I found a clear glass misting spray bottle resting beside a terracotta saucer. A single, swollen droplet clung beneath its metal nozzle, trembling in the air. I approached quietly, reached up, and coaxed the drop onto my fingertip. It held steady—cool, perfect, and clear. Turning toward the youngest shoot of the pothos vine, I pressed the moisture directly against its curled tip, watching the dry edge drink it in.