The small house at the edge of the village always smelled of cardamom and peace. Every morning, before the sun stretched its golden fingers across the fields, old Meera would boil water for tea and set out two cups—one for herself, and one for Raghav, her husband of fifty years.
But for the past six months, only one cup was needed.
Raghav had passed away on a winter night, as quietly as he had lived. No drama, no struggle—just a deep breath, and then none. Meera had sat by his side, holding his hand as the warmth left it, whispering, "Go, my love. I'll be fine."
But she wasn't. Not really.
She still spoke to him as if he were there.
"Raghav, the milk's almost boiled over again. You always warned me about that," she'd say, smiling sadly at the bubbling pot.
The neighbors often offered help—bringing vegetables, checking in. Meera always thanked them gently but declined.
One rainy afternoon, the postman brought her a letter. Her hands trembled as she opened it, not recognizing the handwriting.
It was from a young boy named Aarav, a volunteer at the hospice where Raghav had spent his last few days. "He spoke of you every day," the letter read. "He asked for a cup of tea every morning and said, 'My Meera makes it better, but yours will do for now.' He made us all smile."
Tears spilled down Meera's cheeks. She hugged the letter to her chest. That night, for the first time in months, she didn't cry herself to sleep.
Instead, she made two cups of tea again and placed one by Raghav's old chair. She didn't expect him to drink it, of course.
But it was her way of saying, "I remember you. I love you. And I always will."
In the quiet of that room, the steam curled upward like a soft sigh, disappearing into the air—just like Raghav had. And yet, something of him stayed behind.
Not in body. But in memory. In tea. In love.