The Second Cup of Tea

The bell above the café door chimed the way it always had, soft and familiar.
I looked up from wiping the counter, expecting another regular who liked their tea strong and their scones warm.

Instead, a man I didn’t recognize stepped inside.

He was tall, dressed in a long coat, with eyes that seemed to search the room for something he’d lost. There was a strange sense of quiet about him—like he carried a piece of the past in his pocket.

“Do you still serve Assam?” he asked.

It was an odd question. We hadn’t had it on the printed menu for years, but I kept a tin tucked away for my own use. Something in his voice made me nod and reach for it without asking why.

I brewed the tea carefully, letting the steam curl around us. He took the first sip slowly, closing his eyes as if tasting a memory.

“Fifty years ago,” he began, “I came here on the rainiest day of my life. I was nineteen, broke, and convinced the world had no place for me. The woman behind the counter poured me a cup of Assam and told me, ‘Some days, all you can do is drink the tea and wait for the rain to stop.’”

He smiled faintly. “It was the kindest thing anyone had said to me.”

My hands froze on the counter. I remembered him now.
A soaked boy with trembling hands, trying not to cry over an empty wallet. I’d given him tea on the house and a place to dry off. And then he’d vanished from my life.

“Why didn’t you ever come back?” I asked.

“I meant to,” he said. “But life kept sending me to other stations, other storms. I just wanted you to know… that cup of tea got me through more than one rain.”

We sat in silence for a while, sipping the Assam. The rain outside had started again, soft against the windows.

When he stood to leave, he reached into his coat and set a small, wrapped parcel on the counter. Inside was a delicate porcelain teacup with a gold rim—something far too beautiful for my humble café.

“For the second cup,” he said, and smiled.

I watched him go, the bell above the door chiming once more.

I never saw him again.
But every time I brew Assam now, I pour an extra cup and set it by the window—just in case the rain decides to bring him back.