The Last Tea of Winter

The Last Tea of Winter

The main snow of the time had come early, covering the tired town of Brayfield in a sensitive cover of white. Maya pulled her jacket tight around her and shuddered as she cleared her path through the peaceful roads. The trees were uncovered, their branches arriving up like skeletal fingers against the dull dark sky. It was an ideal day for a warm beverage and a tranquil second to herself.

Maya was a predictable animal. Each colder time of year morning, she would come by the neighborhood coffee bar, "Leaves of Progress," to enjoy some of her #1 jasmine tea. The shop was a little, comfortable shelter settled between the old bread kitchen and a bookshop that had been better. Maya revered it for the nature of the tea as well as for the glow and effortlessness of the spot. The walls were fixed with bright tins of tea leaves from around the world, each marked with manually written notes specifying their starting points and flavors. The air inside generally resembled earth and blossoms, a delicate sign of hotter seasons.

The little ringer over the entryway jingled as she ventured inside, and Maya felt a prompt flood of solace. It was warm, loaded up with the mumble of different supporters and the delicate ringing of porcelain cups against saucers. There was a bizarre quietness to it, as though time dialed back the second she entered.

TOday, be that as it may, the shop felt unique. Maya saw a more established man sitting by the window, a man she hadn't seen previously. He was wearing a dated suit, a woolen coat hung over the rear of his seat. His hair was sprinkled with dark, and his eyes were centered eagerly around the snow outside, out to lunch. Before him sat an immaculate cup of tea, steam ascending in delicate twists. There was something practically tormenting about the man's disposition, as though he were sitting tight for something — or somebody.

Maya was normally inquisitive, however, she seldom initiated discussions with outsiders, something about the man drew her consideration. After a snapshot of dithering, she moved toward the counter, requested her typical jasmine tea, and sat down at a table close by. She looked over at him, and he looked into her, grabbing her attention. She felt a shock of something — acknowledgment? Commonality? However, she was sure she'd never seen him.

"Hello," the man said, his voice smooth and delicate.

"Hello," she answered, offering a courteous grin. "Cold out there, right?"

He gestured, a touch of a grin all the rage. "Very. Be that as it may, there's a delightful thing about it, wouldn't you say? The primary snow generally feels like the world squeezing stop."

Maya gestured, shocked by the wonderful idea of his words. "I assume so. It causes all that to feel… new, I presume."

The man laughed, a sound as warm as the tea she grasped. "Indeed. Fresh starts are in many cases camouflaged as tranquil minutes."

There was an odd quality to his words, something that blended the edges of her memory, as though she'd heard them previously. She looked at his immaculate tea. "Not a devotee of tea?"

"Goodness, I love tea," he answered, at last folding his hands over the cup. "Yet, I was trusting that the right second will take the principal taste."

Maya raised an eyebrow. "Is there such an amazing concept as the right second?"

He gave her an insightful look. "At times. Some of the time we need to stand by, in any event, for the easily overlooked details. Wouldn't you say?"

She considered this, feeling as though his words held an importance she couldn't exactly get a handle on. As she tasted her tea, a quiet settled between them, not awkward yet loaded down with implicit contemplations. She found herself strangely calm with this outsider, and before she understood it, she'd started discussing herself. She discussed her affection for the town, her work at the little neighborhood craftsmanship exhibition, and her enthusiasm for painting that she seldom imparted to other people. He listened eagerly, his look never faltering, as though every word she said was a valuable thing.

Ultimately, he started to talk, and Maya learned pieces and bits of his life. His name was Henry, and he had once been a voyager, wandering the world looking for places that felt immaculate by time. He discussed far-off lands, antiquated destroys, and woodlands thick with secrets. Maya tuned in, enraptured by his accounts, which sounded more like fables than reality.

What carries you to Brayfield?" she at long last inquired.

Henry grinned, yet his eyes held a smidgen of pity. "I'm here to bid farewell."

Maya's heart skirted a thump, feeling a peculiar ache at his words. "To whom?"

He stopped, his look floating back to the snow-shrouded roads outside. "To somebody I once adored. We used to meet here, quite a while in the past, each colder time of year."

She paused, detecting there was more going on in the background, however he didn't intricate. They sat peacefully, tasting their tea as the snow fell delicately outside. In the long run, he stood up, putting his vacant cup on the table.

"It was a joy meeting you, Maya," he said, his voice delicate.

Maya's eyes augmented. "How did you — ?"

In any case, before she could get done, he turned and strolled toward the entryway. The chime jingled as he left, and a virus draft hurried into the shop. She gazed after him, shocked. She had never let him know her name.

In the days that followed, Maya got back to "Leaves of Progress" every morning, wanting to see Henry once more. She had such countless inquiries, such countless things she needed to say. In any case, he stayed away forever. She even inquired as to whether he'd seen Henry, however, the proprietor shook his head, saying he hadn't seen anybody matching that depiction.

Weeks passed, and the memory of Henry blurred, however, it left a peculiar feeling of yearning in her heart. Winter liquefied into spring, and Maya continued her daily practice, however, she never fully felt something similar. Her day-to-day visits to the café became touched with a peaceful despairing, a sensation of sitting tight for something that may in all likelihood ever come.

At some point, as she was leaving the shop, a lady halted her outside. She was more established, with silver hair and eyes that appeared to be excessively knowing. She held out a little, collapsed note.

"Are you Maya?" the lady inquired.

"Indeed… might I at any point help you?"

The lady grinned, giving her the note. "This is from Henry. He requested that I give it to you assuming I at any point saw you here."

Maya's hands shook as she unfurled the paper. Inside was a solitary line, written in a content that seemed as though it had been written with extreme attention to detail.

"Much thanks to you for imparting one final cup of tea to me. I tracked down the right second all things considered."

Tears stung her eyes as she read the words, understanding the tranquil excellence of their experience. She admired the lady, yet she was at that point gone, her figure vanishing down the snow-tidied road. Maya remained there, the note grasped firmly in her grasp, feeling like she had seen something significant — a delicate, transitory brush with the previous, a story that would wait in her heart like the fragrance of jasmine on a colder time of year's day.

thank for reading

nadia