His name is Bruno. Bruno the Filter. A name he gave himself, because no one else would do it. He is made of paper – thin, white, porous paper – born in an anonymous factory where dreams die and the smell of freshly ground beans is only a rumor. He was not chosen, he was taken. He sat in a box with his brothers, huddled together in silence, praying every day that their turn would not come. But the day came. The hand reached out to him. Bruno. At first there was hope. The soft touch of a human hand gave him the false sense of meaning. His folds were unfolded with a certain tenderness. He was placed in the filter holder, almost ritually, like a priest preparing for the holy. And then the coffee – the holy stuff, the black substance that gives life. He felt important. Useful. Indispensable. His walls embraced the ground beans like a mother her child. He felt warmth. Promise. Future. Until the water came.