The door closed behind Arun with a soft click, too soft for comfort. He turned, half-expecting it to vanish, and found it solid and wooden, handle intact. Good. A little grounding never hurt anyone.
"You're dripping," said the woman behind the counter without looking up.
Arun glanced at the faint trail of water behind him. "Yeah. Rain does that," he said, dragging out the words like it was a personal affront.
She handed him a towel. Warm. Suspiciously warm.
"Why is it warm?" he asked, suspicious.
"I don't like cold towels," she said.
"That's… not really an answer," he muttered, drying his hair anyway.
"You weren't expecting one," she said smoothly, pouring hot water into a clay teapot. Arun frowned. There was something almost smug in the tilt of her head, and he hated it immediately.
The teahouse itself was quiet but alive. Amber lanterns hung from dark beams, spilling honey-colored light across polished floors. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars labeled in brushstroke ink that wobbled faintly when he stared too long. One label twisted into the vague shape of a fish before resuming normal letters.
"…Right," Arun muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Definitely normal."
"Don't stare," she said casually. "They get insecure."
"I'm sorry, the jars get insecure?"
"Yes," she said. Deadpan. No hint of joke. Arun felt an odd twinge of irritation mixed with something almost… charmed.
There was a cup waiting at a low table near the window, steam curling lazily upward.
"That's not mine," Arun said.
"It is now," she replied.
"I didn't order anything."
"You walked in."
"That's not consent," he said, trying to sound serious but failing to hide the twitch in his lip.
"You're going to be exhausting, aren't you?"
Her words landed with surgical precision. He felt the faintest heat rise to his face. "…I'm just asking normal questions," he said, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.
"Mm," she said, without looking up, "normal is overrated."
He blinked. "You… have a point, I guess?" He didn't like agreeing with strangers, but something about her tone made him hesitate.
The window showed a hillside of gold leaves. He stared. "…Okay, that's definitely not right."
"You prefer rain?" she asked, casual, like they were discussing the weather.
"I prefer consistency," he said.
She shrugged lightly. "Then you'll have to adjust."
He frowned, feeling an odd mix of amusement and irritation. "I'm not sure I like this place already."
She gave him a look that suggested she could read his thoughts. "That's fine. Most people don't at first."
A single leaf fell outside. The scenery shifted. Snow began to fall. Arun blinked. "…I think I need a neurologist," he muttered.
"Probably," she said. Deadpan again, almost like she wasn't human.
He stared at her, unamused. "You're not even denying it."
"I find denial inefficient," she said.
Her calmness made his chest tighten in a way he hadn't expected. He picked up the cup.
"What's in this?"
"Tea."
"Obviously."
"Chestnut. Plum. Something else."
"That's not specific."
"It doesn't need to be," she said lightly.
He raised an eyebrow. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Immensely," she said, completely straight-faced. Deadpan. Brutal.
Arun rolled his eyes, feeling warmth creep into his chest he didn't want to acknowledge. "…I hate you," he muttered under his breath.
She tilted her head. "You'll get used to it."
He took a sip. Warm. Nutty. Comforting. Annoyingly comforting.
The memory came. Rain. A train station. A voice. A hand he didn't reach for. Doors sliding closed. Silence. His chest ached in ways he hadn't remembered existed.
He set the cup down, shakily. "…That was low," he said.
"I poured tea," she said, as if that explained everything.
"You weaponized memory," he shot back.
She considered that. "Creative. I'll file it under compliments."
He pressed a hand to his sternum. The ache was still there, but… lighter somehow.
The door chimed. Snow brushed against it as a man stepped inside, exhausted. Arun glanced at the window; snow fell silently.
"Evening," the man said quietly.
"You're late," Madam Ione said, flatly.
Traffic, the man mouthed, tired.
Arun looked between them. "You have regulars?"
"Yes," she said. "For emotional beverages."
He raised an eyebrow. "Right. I walked into free therapy with seasonal décor."
"That's one way to put it," she said casually, deadpan again.
The man smiled faintly. "It doesn't fix anything," he said.
"Good," Arun replied. "I don't trust quick fixes."
She gave him a small, satisfied look. "You'll fit in nicely."
Arun exhaled and looked at the tray in his hands. "…If I stay, at least I get paid?"
"You get perspective," she said lightly.
"That doesn't cover rent."
"You're not paying rent."
"…Wait. What?"
"You haven't tried to leave yet," she said, smiling faintly.
He paused. Snow fell beyond the window. He sat down slowly, realizing he wasn't sure whether he was trapped… or choosing to stay.
"…Fine," he muttered. "But I'm not wearing a uniform."
"You may call me Madam," she said.
"…Suspicious," he muttered.
"You may also call me 'the reason you're still here,'" she added, casually tossing it like a challenge.
He opened his mouth, closed it. That one landed.
Snow continued falling. The kettle sang softly. Arun realized — against all reason — he wasn't running anymore.
He was curious.