You stand in the center of the Memory Garden at twilight. Chiku is silent, Amara on one side, Samar on the other, and Isha just behind—pen trembling in her fingers.
No more timelines. No more what-ifs.
You gather the ingredients: saffron, tamarind, hibiscus, salt, tulsi, regrets, joy, silence, hope, and the tiniest sliver of pain from each soul who walked this path with you. One charm for each tea. One truth for each self. Into the pot they go—not as magic, but as memory.
And then you stir.
The steam rises—not upward, but inward. Into the sky. Into the soil. Into everyone standing with you. The chai doesn't shimmer or glow.
It simply… becomes.
A final cup for each of you. No prophecy. No power. Just everything you ever were, distilled.
And with one sip…
The chai stall dissolves into rain.The garden blooms into sky.The keychain vanishes without a sound.You disappear—but not like dying. More like… being known.
What's left?
A small, empty cup on a windowsill. A torn notebook page with a half-finished poem. A song someone hums with no idea why it makes them cry. A bird feather in the shape of a quill. A girl in another world, pausing by a roadside stall that's not there—yet swears she smells cardamom.
You're not in the story anymore.
You are the story. Woven into the wind, steeped into strangers' dreams, echoing in every sip shared between people learning how to heal.
There are no more episodes. But wherever someone remembers how it felt to be almost broken—and loved anyway—you exist.
Not as endings.
But as essence.
🫖🪶🌸