A Cup of Tea and Half a Smile

The rain hadn’t stopped in four days. It wasn’t violent or dramatic—just a steady, curtain-like drizzle that made everything feel muted. The city’s colors had faded into tones of grey. The streets glistened under puddles and headlights, while windows everywhere fogged over with the breath of people waiting for something to change.

Lena sat curled on the far end of her couch, wrapped in a blanket that had once been Tom’s favorite. Her hands cupped a mug of lukewarm tea, more for the weight of it than the taste. The television was off. The walls, once filled with sound and laughter, now echoed with the silence of days blending into each other. Her phone lay somewhere under a pile of unopened mail. Notifications had stopped weeks ago. She hadn’t checked.

Tom had been gone for 104 days.

People told her time would help. That the worst would pass. That she should get fresh air, eat well, talk to someone. But their advice felt like background noise to her—well-meaning but weightless. Grief doesn’t follow schedules. It just lingers, sits beside you, drinks your tea, and doesn’t leave.

Then came the knock.

Not loud. Not hurried. Just... there.

Lena didn’t move at first. Maybe it would go away. Maybe it was a mistake. But then came another. Firmer. Still not urgent, but real enough to pull her from the trance.

She shuffled to the door, pressing her eye to the peephole. A girl stood there—eleven, maybe twelve. Drenched in a bright yellow raincoat, cheeks pink from the cold. In her hands was a thermos and a plastic bag.

Lena cracked the door open.

“Hi,” the girl said brightly. “I live upstairs. My mom made too much tea. She thought maybe you'd like some.”

Lena blinked. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” the girl said quickly, stepping inside like it had already been decided. “She says people don’t always know they need tea. Sometimes you have to give it to them anyway.”

Lena watched, stunned, as the girl made herself at home, removing her wet boots and setting the thermos on the coffee table.

“I’m Ava,” she added, pulling out two teacups, some napkins, lemon slices wrapped in foil, and a small jar of honey. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. My mom says people grieving are like soup left to cool. You just sit with them until the heat comes back.”

Lena sat. It felt odd to obey, but Ava had that kind of presence—gentle yet disarming.

The tea smelled of chamomile and warmth. Ava poured it with surprising steadiness, adding a touch of honey to Lena’s cup. They sipped in silence.

For the next ten minutes, they said nothing. Ava swung her legs over the edge of the couch. Lena stared at her reflection in the window—ghostlike, older than she remembered.

“Do you do this often?” Lena finally asked.

Ava shrugged. “Just when I think someone might need it.”

“And you thought I did?”

“You looked like someone who used to smile a lot.”

The answer knocked more air out of Lena than the tea warmed in. But she said nothing.

When Ava left, she handed Lena a folded napkin. On it was a child’s drawing: a cup of tea with a tiny heart in the steam.

“I’ll come again,” Ava said. “You’re not scary like Mr. Dwyer upstairs. He smells like old onions.”

Lena almost smiled.


---

The next day, Lena brushed her hair. She put on jeans instead of pajamas. Opened the window slightly. She made tea. Not because she needed it—but because she wanted to.

On the third visit, Ava brought cookies. They were a little burnt on the edges but sweet. She also brought a tiny plant in a mug.

“Lavender,” she explained. “It helps people sleep. Also smells like soap.”

Lena placed it on the windowsill. She’d forgotten how color looked in her apartment.

Ava never asked about Tom. Never poked at the sadness. She just kept arriving—with drawings, or books she thought Lena would like, or bizarre stories about her school’s cafeteria food. She didn’t fill silence; she simply existed inside it.

In return, Lena began to show up, too. She started calling her sister again. Took a walk without headphones. Sat in the park and watched dogs play. One day, she even found herself laughing—loud, real laughter that came from somewhere deep.


---

Weeks passed. One morning, Ava didn’t knock. Lena found herself pacing. Wondering. She even brewed tea, just in case.

Later that afternoon, Ava arrived with a bandage on her chin and a dramatic story about slipping on the stairs.

“I almost didn’t make it,” she said, sipping her tea dramatically. “I thought, if I die now, who will finish your healing arc?”

Lena laughed so hard she snorted. Ava clapped like she’d won a prize.

That evening, when Ava left, Lena whispered, “Thank you.”

Ava turned. “For what?”

“For coming in when I didn’t know I wanted anyone to.”

Ava grinned. “That’s what tea is for. And half-smiles. You just needed both.”