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The cup greets you with the scent of sage and thyme, rising like smoke from an altar long cold — green, resinous, and alive again. It smells of surrender and survival both, like a forest breathing after fire. Then lemon balm begins to glow through the haze, softening what once burned, and orange peel follows — warm, amber, and faintly sweet, the memory of light returning. Finally, mint marigold unfolds like dawn on soot-dark soil, a golden thread that whispers: you have not been undone.
The taste moves like confession — bitter at first, then brightening. Earth gives way to air; sorrow to clarity. Each sip feels like a step home through the ruins, soot beneath your feet and new shoots at your ankles.
This is not a tea for forgetting, but for becoming — for walking through the remnants of what was and finding, against all sense, that life still hums beneath the ash. Drink slowly. Let it tell you what is ready to rise.
The cup greets you with the scent of sage and thyme, rising like smoke from an altar long cold — green, resinous, and alive again. It smells of surrender and survival both, like a forest breathing after fire. Then lemon balm begins to glow through the haze, softening what once burned, and orange peel follows — warm, amber, and faintly sweet, the memory of light returning. Finally, mint marigold unfolds like dawn on soot-dark soil, a golden thread that whispers: you have not been undone.
The taste moves like confession — bitter at first, then brightening. Earth gives way to air; sorrow to clarity. Each sip feels like a step home through the ruins, soot beneath your feet and new shoots at your ankles.
This is not a tea for forgetting, but for becoming — for walking through the remnants of what was and finding, against all sense, that life still hums beneath the ash. Drink slowly. Let it tell you what is ready to rise.