The kettle hissed softly as Arun polished the counter. He kept his sarcasm in check — mostly — because the man from yesterday had returned, this time with a quiet resolve that made Arun feel… unsettled.
"You're early," Arun said, voice flat, handing over a cup.
"I didn't sleep well," the man admitted, tracing the rim with a finger. His eyes didn't meet Arun's. They looked through him, somewhere beyond the walls of the teahouse.
Arun leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Tea again? Or are you just here to stare at the ceiling?"
The man's lips twitched, almost a smile. Arun felt a faint twinge of… something. Sympathy, maybe. It was always awkward when that happened.
Madam Ione appeared behind the counter, carrying a small tray with jars of herbs. She set them down with exaggerated care and fixed Arun with a look that suggested amusement.
"Mr. Vale," she said, voice low, "if you keep commenting on everything, you'll miss the interesting parts."
"Which would be?" Arun asked, raising an eyebrow.
"That he's about to break your heart in a very polite way," she said lightly, deadpan, and then poured a pinch of something into the kettle. Steam shimmered briefly, like tiny sparks of gold curling upward.
Arun blinked. "Why do I get the feeling you're enjoying this far too much?"
"Enjoyment is a flexible term," she replied, smirking. "Mostly, I like seeing the dramatic eyebrow raise."
The man cleared his throat. Arun's attention snapped back to him. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of the weight in the room.
"…I don't know where to start," the man said, finally looking up. His eyes were raw, haunted, and Arun realized they had been carefully shielding that all along.
"Start wherever it hurts least," Arun said automatically. His own sarcasm felt hollow, even to him. He wasn't sure if it was a warning or encouragement.
Madam Ione leaned against a shelf, pretending to arrange jars. "Sometimes, just saying it out loud is the trickiest magic of all," she said, quietly.
Arun shot her a glance. "You're not helping," he muttered, though his voice was softer than usual.
"I'm observing," she replied, perfectly deadpan. "Mostly."
The man inhaled deeply and began. "I… I used to hear her laugh everywhere. At home, at school, even when she was just reading a book. It used to be like sunlight hitting everything around her." His voice trembled. Arun noticed the subtle catch in it. His sarcasm was suddenly irrelevant; there was no way to make a joke here.
"I… forgot," the man continued. "One day, I couldn't remember the sound of it. Not exactly. Just fragments. A squeak, a giggle… I tried to hold onto it, but the more I tried, the further it drifted. And now…" His hands trembled slightly as he lifted the cup. "…I don't even know if I can recognize it anymore."
Arun felt his throat tighten. He shifted awkwardly. "That… that really sucks," he said flatly. Even his sarcasm couldn't cover the gravity. He fumbled with the tray. "I mean, uh… I don't—yeah. That sucks."
Madam Ione, watching quietly, tapped the rim of a jar. The steam in the teahouse swirled, spiraling like a slow tornado around the man. Arun noticed tiny glimmers of gold and silver dancing in it, though no candle could have cast them. He swallowed. He hadn't expected the magic to make him uneasy.
"You're spilling tea," Madam Ione said casually, deadpan, but her eyes twinkled. "Literally and metaphorically."
Arun jumped, looking down at the cup. "I'm trying not to."
"You're not succeeding," she said softly. Her voice carried no judgment, only observation.
The man sipped the tea, and the tremor in his hands eased slightly. Arun noticed the faintest flicker of recognition cross his face, like a shadow of a memory brushing against the edges of his mind. The room felt heavier, charged — as though the teahouse itself leaned in to listen.
Arun tried to make a joke. "So… this is one of those 'drink and feel feelings' places?"
Madam Ione didn't reply. Instead, she tilted her head and gave him that smirk again. "You're learning the rules slowly," she said. "Step one: stop pretending this is optional."
Arun scowled. "…Great. Rules I didn't agree to."
The man set down his cup and stared at the steam curling upward. It shimmered faintly, forming shapes he couldn't name — a swing, a garden, a small hand waving. He blinked, and they vanished. Arun caught the faintest twitch in his jaw as he realized the tea was showing pieces of memory, not inventing them.
"I… I think I remember it," the man whispered, voice raw. A small smile broke through, fragile but real. "Just a little. Her laugh… it's coming back."
Arun froze, unsure whether to congratulate him or make a sarcastic quip. Neither felt right. So he said nothing. Just watched.
Madam Ione leaned closer to him, quietly. "Not everything needs your commentary, Mr. Vale," she murmured.
"I… I was going to say 'congrats'?" he said, helplessly.
"That's optional," she replied, deadpan, eyes glinting. "Observation is mandatory."
Arun groaned quietly, but underneath it, he felt something lighter. The weight of grief in the room hadn't disappeared, but it had shifted — like snow settling on branches instead of crushing them.
Outside, snow continued falling. The kettle hissed, jars rattled slightly as though acknowledging the moment, and the teahouse hummed with quiet magic that made Arun realize something he hadn't expected: maybe, just maybe, some rules were worth following.