The next morning, Arun woke to the faint hiss of the kettle. He was reasonably certain he hadn't slept in a proper bed; the floor beneath him had been suspiciously soft, but he didn't have the energy to question it. Or maybe he had, deep down, and that was why he didn't move.
Madam Ione was already up, sliding jars open and closing them with gentle taps. Steam rose from a tray of cups lined like soldiers, each one labeled in handwriting that refused to stay still. Arun rubbed his eyes, hoping they would stop dancing if he blinked enough. They didn't.
"You look like you survived a small war," she said, deadpan, glancing at him over her shoulder.
"I did. Against my alarm clock," he said, voice dry. "I lost."
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Your defeat is noted. Do you want tea, or should I let you stew in it?"
He frowned. "I… guess tea. But make it subtle. Not the kind that drags me through my memories again."
"You have no choice," she said, smiling faintly. That was her way of warning him without warning him. Arun sighed. The soft warmth of inevitability had become familiar.
By the time he carried the tray to the counter, a customer had arrived. Not a spectacular arrival — just a man in his forties, jacket damp, hair slightly disheveled, expression like he'd been carrying a bag full of heavy regrets for too long. He looked around the teahouse as though expecting someone to jump out and lecture him, but when he spotted Madam Ione, his shoulders sagged.
"Morning," she said calmly.
He blinked, as though the sound of a greeting in this place was enough to confuse him. "Morning," he replied softly.
Arun set the tray down, noting the man's hands. Thin, pale, shaking ever so slightly.
"You'll do the honors," Madam Ione said, gesturing at him.
Arun raised an eyebrow. "Me? I just got a job. I'm not trained in… comforting people with emotional tea."
"Neither am I. Doesn't seem to stop me."
Arun groaned. "Great. My professional incompetence is being weaponized by tea."
The man's eyes flicked to him, wary. Arun tried not to notice how tired the man looked — how deeply his exhaustion seemed to settle into the lines of his face. But of course he did. It was impossible not to.
"Winter Plum," Arun said, carefully pouring the tea into the cup. He remembered Madam Ione's instructions: observe, pour, serve.
"You're shaking," the man said quietly, not accusing, just stating it.
"Excuse me?" Arun said automatically, stepping back a bit.
"You," the man clarified, voice softer. "Your hand. You're nervous."
Arun looked at his own fingers, then at the cup, then back at the man. "…I'm fine," he said, sarcasm creeping in. "…Fine, nervous is an exaggeration. Mildly disturbed, maybe."
The man didn't react. He just studied him, eyes calm but heavy. Arun felt awkward under that gaze — like the air had been sucked out of the room just for him.
"Here," Arun said, placing the cup in front of him. "Drink it. Or don't. I don't have strong opinions."
The man smiled faintly, almost grateful. He lifted the cup with care and inhaled the steam. The faint scent of plum and chestnut filled the air between them. Arun watched, waiting for the dramatic moment — the memory to rise, the magic to strike.
It didn't happen immediately.
Instead, the man's hand trembled slightly, and his lips parted. He looked down at the cup. "…I'm sorry," he whispered.
Arun tilted his head. "For what?"
"For… forgetting," the man said, voice cracking. "For forgetting her laugh."
Arun froze. He felt a pang in his chest he didn't recognize — something more than sympathy, more than guilt. It was… awkward. He shifted on his feet. Madam Ione's eyes flicked toward him, amused.
"You see," she said softly, deadpan but warm, "he can't even blame the tea. He's been drowning in it long before today."
Arun wanted to make a joke about drowning and responsibilities, but instead he just stood there, staring at the man.
The man took a small sip. Then another. The tremor in his hands eased slightly, though the weight behind his eyes remained. Arun realized — slowly — that the tea didn't erase pain. It only let people look at it without pretending it wasn't there.
"You… you really remember?" the man asked finally, voice small, as if speaking too loudly might break him.
"Memory is complicated," Arun said, dryly. "…Or unreliable. Depends who's asking."
The man chuckled, faint, sad. "I guess I asked the wrong person."
"You did," Arun agreed, not unkindly. He felt his usual sarcasm lose its bite. "…But I'll serve it anyway."
Madam Ione leaned against the counter, silent for a moment. Then she said: "People come here to find things they thought were gone. Sometimes it's small. Sometimes it's everything." Her tone was casual, almost like she was talking about the weather, but the weight of her words pressed into the quiet between them.
The man lifted the cup again, letting the warmth seep into his palms. Arun watched him, waiting. And for a long moment, all that filled the room was the soft hum of the kettle and the quiet acknowledgment of loss — and the faintest flicker of a smile, as if remembering something fragile and precious.
Arun tilted his head. "…I think that's new," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Madam Ione raised an eyebrow. "Which part?"
"Everything. The quiet. The smile. The tea that doesn't make him explode in tears immediately."
She smirked faintly, the kind of smirk that told you she had planned all of this. "Patience, Mr. Vale. You'll get used to subtlety eventually. Or not. That's your choice."
Arun groaned, leaning back. "…Of course. And here I thought my sarcasm had limits."
"You'll find they expand quickly here," she said lightly, deadpan. "Consider it growth."
Arun glared at her over the rim of his cup. Somehow, he didn't feel like leaving. Somehow, he didn't entirely hate it.
The man lifted his cup again, inhaling the scent of memory and loss. Arun wondered how long it would take before he started laughing with him instead of just pouring tea.
Probably longer than he wanted to admit.