🌤️
The road was empty again.
Just dirt, grass, and the soft hum of wind brushing through the fields. The kind of road that seemed to go on forever — and I was the only fool still walking it.
My boots were dusty, my cloak smelled faintly of rain, and my coin pouch made the same lonely clink it always did: the sound of "barely enough."
It was around noon when I saw it — a wooden sign, half-fallen, pointing toward a side path.
The letters were faint but still legible:
[TEA – HOT. 1 CUP. 1 STORY.]
"…A story?"
That made me smile a little. I hadn't told a story in months. Usually, I just listened to other people's — sad ones, funny ones, or ones they didn't want to remember.
So I followed the sign.
~~~~~
The path led through a cluster of wildflowers, past a leaning fence and an old wooden gate.
At the end stood a small tea shop — the kind that looked like it might blow away in a strong breeze.
The door creaked open before I could knock.
A voice called out:
"Come in! If you're alive, please wipe your feet! If you're not, float gently!"
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Ghosts. They never wipe their feet. Terrible guests."
I stepped inside.
~~~~~
The place smelled wonderful — roasted tea leaves, honey, and a bit of smoke from the old iron kettle in the corner.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with mismatched cups. Some were chipped, others clearly stolen from different taverns.
Behind the counter stood an old lady, maybe in her seventies, wearing a shawl patched with dozens of colors. She had kind eyes but a sharp tongue — the sort of person who could scold you and comfort you in the same breath.
"You're early," she said. "The ghosts don't usually arrive until sunset."
"I'm not a ghost," I said.
"That's what the last one said. He ordered black tea and vanished before paying."
"Maybe he didn't have coins?"
"Ghosts never do. Their wallets are as empty as their hearts."
I laughed. "Then I guess I'll have to pay double to make up for him."
"You'll pay the price on the sign."
"One cup, one story. You tell me one, I'll pour your tea."
~~~~~
I sat down at a creaky table by the window. Dust motes drifted through the sunlight like lazy fairies.
The old lady placed a teapot before me.
Steam rose — slow, calm, beautiful.
The smell of jasmine, maybe. Or nostalgia.
"Well?" she asked. "Got a story for me, wanderer?"
I thought for a moment.
"I once met a man who tried to sell me rain."
"Rain?"
"Yeah. He said he bottled it during a thunderstorm. Called it 'the tears of the sky.' Wanted to charge me a silver coin per bottle."
"Did you buy it?"
"I bought two."
"You fool!"
I shrugged. "They were actually just bottles of water. But I liked the idea. Sometimes I open them when it's hot — reminds me that the sky can cry too."
The old lady laughed softly. "You're a strange one. But I like strange. Normal people drink tea too fast."
She poured me a cup.
The liquid shimmered — golden, gentle, like sunlight through honey.
~~~~~
"Who usually comes here?" I asked.
"Oh, all sorts," she said. "Travelers, soldiers, sometimes people who never left home. But lately… only ghosts."
"Ghosts?"
"People who still have stories stuck inside them. Not the scary kind — the lonely kind. They sit, drink tea, and disappear when they finally remember what they forgot."
"That sounds sad."
"It's not. Everyone leaves eventually. But while they're here, they're warm."
She sipped her own tea quietly.
"You'll leave soon too, won't you?"
"I always do."
"Then drink slowly."
~~~~~
Outside, the wind picked up again.
The grass whispered.
For a moment, it felt like the whole world paused — just the two of us, a table, and two cups of steaming tea.
The tea tasted like spring rain.
Sweet, faintly bitter, but alive.
I looked around again. There were other cups on the shelves, half-full, untouched. Some had dried tea leaves still floating — as if their owners had vanished mid-sip.
Maybe they had.
~~~~~
Before I left, I placed a small pouch of herbs on the counter.
"For your next pot."
She smiled. "Payment received. Though your story was worth more than tea."
I bowed lightly. "Then I'll come again — to balance the debt."
"You won't. But I'll save your cup anyway."
I hesitated. "You think I'm one of your ghosts, don't you?"
She looked at me kindly.
"Aren't we all?"
~~~~~
When I stepped outside, the air was cool and bright.
I turned back once — the shop's sign was swaying gently.
But the building itself was gone.
Only the flowers remained, and the faint smell of jasmine in the wind.
I smiled to myself, took another step down the road, and whispered,
"Good tea."
And the road went on.