It was one of those drizzly Sunday mornings when the world outside felt muted, like a watercolor left out in the rain. The kind of morning that asks for nothing but stillness and something warm to hold. I was curled up on my favorite armchair, a chipped ceramic mug of oolong steaming beside me, when I stumbled upon a little tin of chinese herbal products that my friend had sent weeks ago. It had been sitting on my shelf, unopened, a quiet stranger waiting for the right moment. That moment arrived when I noticed the tin’s label—a simple, hand-drawn branch of chrysanthemum. Something about its restraint felt intentional, like an…