There is a particular silence after the matcha is whisked. The whisk leaves the bowl, the foam holds its peak for a breath longer than seems possible, and then settles into a green so still it could be a held vow, the small ceremony of a slow morning. We make our matcha line slowly because matcha rewards the one who lingers. The bittersweet depth blooms only after time has passed on the palate. This is the way Yakob waited for Rahel, for fourteen years. Not because waiting itself was the point, but because depth, like flavour, is a thing that needs time.