COFFEE IN A POT - A Tale of Hope - Musical Prose with Sofia Soul 🎤📖 🎸

artwork & poetry specially provided by NS

Today I wrote about a moment where poverty, silence, and one pot of coffee became the backdrop for something sacred — the decision to choose life. In a cramped apartment full of broken girls, Ira whispers that she might be pregnant… and doesn’t know what to do. Stan, an old friend with nothing but a prize envelope, offers not just money — but presence. No lectures. Just quiet strength. Around them, the others return — with cheap groceries, wet jackets, and unspoken solidarity. In the middle of nothing special… something beautiful happens. Hope brews slowly — like coffee in a pot.

COFFEE IN A POT

Ira’s apartment was in an old building, covered in graffiti — with a wooden banister, worn-out stairs, and a gate that squeaked every time you opened it. Inside — a small space shared by six people. Three rooms, no luxury, but tidy. The air carried a sense of togetherness — like in poor families, where the table is modest, but the bread is shared equally, and warmth is not in the walls, but in the eyes of the people.
It smelled of tobacco, cheap coffee, and laundry detergent. The dishes in the cupboard came from various restaurants — each with its own story, color, and size. And the mugs — stolen memories from a world that no longer remembered them, but had let them stay.
Though there were six beds, there was only one girl in the apartment. Her name was Olya. She had quit drugs a year ago — one of the few. Now she lived clean, worked in a warehouse, and came home on time. She didn’t ask, didn’t pry. She just stayed silent — out of respect for the silence of others.
“Will you come in?” she asked softly, without insisting. “I don’t have much... just coffee in a pot.”
The coffee really was boiling in a pot. There was no machine. There was silence. And something like home.
They sat. Drank coffee. Black grounds at the bottom. Olya stared at her phone. Stan — at Ira. She — at a point on the wall. The yellowish lamp didn’t fully light them, but revealed enough for them to meet each other’s eyes.
Ira opened her mouth, then fell silent. Finally, she said:
“I think… I’m pregnant.”
“You think?” Stan raised an eyebrow.
“I’m late. It’s been a while...”
“How long?”
“Six weeks.”
“From Roman?”
“Yes. But he’s gone. We had a fight. He left.”
“He left?”
“He was high again. Didn’t even recognize himself. I’ve been losing him for a while. Or maybe he’s losing himself. I don’t know.”
Silence.
“I know what you’re going to say...”
“You don’t.”
She looked at him.
“I don’t want a child. But I also don’t want to… get rid of it. I’m not sure. I don’t have a job. Money — even less...”
Stan pulled an envelope from his backpack — the prize from the competition. He placed it in front of her.
“If you decide to keep it… I’ll help you. Not for one night. For as long as it takes.”
Ira looked at him for a long time. Then smiled — crookedly. Genuinely.
“Thank you. But I can’t accept...”
“Please, Ira.”
His voice wasn’t a plea, but a prayer — torn, inexplicable, greater than himself.
“I’m not a saint,” he said. “I’ve fallen, been foolish, sold my time for a couple of bucks and hollow applause. But there’s something you can’t buy. Life. Innocent life. It doesn’t cry yet, doesn’t laugh yet — but it breathes in you.”
He paused, then continued more quietly:
“It may never hold a guitar. Never write a poem. Never change anything. It might grow up in poverty. But it will live. It will call you ‘mom’. It will cling to you with little hands that don’t yet exist... but are already begging to stay.”
His eyes moistened. Not from sentiment, but from fear.
“I don’t judge you. Who am I to judge? But God is watching you. Not with anger. With tears. And He says — you’re not alone. I am with you. I am in you. I am in this child.”
Ira didn’t move. She just whispered:
“I don’t know how I’ll manage. That envelope… it’s not enough.”
Stan smiled wryly.
“No one ever has ‘enough’. That’s the biggest lie — that you have to be ready before you can love. Money will come. I’ll find it. But you have to want this child. Give it everything. Can you?”
She cried. Without sound. Just tears. Her shoulders trembled — as if the world had finally heard her.
She reached out. Touched the envelope. Didn’t take it — just touched it.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll try.”
Stan nodded. In that poor kitchen, with cheap coffee and a creaky floor, something great had happened. No fanfare. Just agreement. One more life.
“Thank you…” she said. “I don’t know how it’ll work. But I’m not alone anymore.”
The coffee had gone cold. The pot sat forgotten on the stove. But Ira’s heart was warm.
The pot boiled again. Someone added more coffee.
And Olya smiled faintly in the corner. Without saying a word.
The coffee bubbled softly. Its aroma spread like an old memory — persistent, yet comforting.
Stan and Ira still sat at the table — silenced by everything said… and all that remained unsaid.
Olya poured into three cups.
“The others will be back soon,” she said. “We’ll have to tell them.”
“Tell them what?” asked Ira.
Olya thought for a moment. Looked at the clock. Then — at the wall.
“You know the rules.”
“Yeah. The sisterhood vow? That one?”
Olya nodded. Then added:
“No boyfriends in the apartment. No stealing. No lying. Everything shared. We’re all broken — at least let’s not break each other.”
“Do you think there’ll be a problem?” Ira whispered.
“No. But they’ll need time.”
The door creaked. Then opened. Two girls walked in — Lina and Mima. Bags full, wet jackets, smell of rain and cheerful laughter.
“We got rice, two cans, and... fake chocolate!” Lina shouted.
Mima eyed Stan.
“Him?”
“Just for a bit,” said Olya. “Ira’s guest.”
A pause followed. Stan stepped back. Didn’t want to intrude.
“Okay then,” said Mima. “As long as he’s not moving in — last time was drama. Remember the guy from Pleven…”
“He’s not moving in,” Ira said calmly. “He’s not a boyfriend. An old friend. Today he saved me. He’s helping me.”
Lina looked at her closely.
“You okay?”
“No. But I will be.”
“You’re not alone,” said Lina. “And just so you know… if it’s what we think… you’ll have support.”
Ira nodded. Grateful they hadn’t said the word.
“You’ll need more iron,” said Mima, rummaging through the bags. “We still have lentils from last week. And some lettuce.”
“And it’s your turn to clean tomorrow,” added Lina with a smile. “No exceptions. Sisters clean — even if the world’s burning.”
“Okay,” said Ira. She smiled for the first time that day. “I’ll start with the bathroom.”
Stan looked at her. Her smile was light, fragile — but real.
Everyone sat down. Mima lit a cigarette by the window. Lina sorted the groceries. Olya poured more coffee.
The pot bubbled. It smelled of something old and new at the same time.
And in that small space, among six lost girls and one uninvited savior, for the first time in a long while, there was something you couldn’t buy or fake.
There was hope.

TO BE CONTINUED

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