You take a chopstick—never a spoon—and draw one slow figure-eight through the layers. The syrup writes its name in the milk-clouds. It’s a Rorschach test you can drink.

It won’t fix anything. But it will taste like , if home were a liquid and had many mothers. End.

They are poured not into a cup, but into a bowl wide as a harvest moon.

It begins not with a crackle, but a sigh. The refrigerator’s amber light hums as the glass bottle comes out, sweating constellations onto the counter. Many milk. Not a single, lonely carton, but a battalion: whole milk, thick as poetry; oat milk, beige and patient; a splash of condensed milk from a tin with a jagged lid; and somewhere, hiding in the back, the ghost of powdered milk your grandmother swore by.