"Steeped in Silence"

The kettle hissed, a thin ribbon of steam curling toward the ceiling like incense from a quiet prayer. Thomas leaned against the kitchen counter, waiting. He never rushed this part — the water had to be just before the boil, not roaring, not angry. Just ready.
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‎He opened the wooden tea box. Inside were rows of small glass jars, each labeled in his tidy handwriting: Assam, Sencha, Silver Needle, Lapsang Souchong. He ran a finger across the lids, finally stopping on one labeled Oolong. A balanced choice — not too sharp, not too soft. Like today.
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‎The teapot was already warm, preheated with hot water he’d swirled and discarded. He added the tea leaves with a small bamboo scoop, watching them fall like tiny curled whispers. Then he poured the hot water, not directly on the leaves but in a circular motion, letting the liquid coax out the story hidden in the dried leaves.
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‎Thomas carried the tray to the small table by the window. The house was quiet, as it had been for some years now. No children shouting. No clatter of keys at the door. No voice calling from the next room. Just the soft crackle of the fireplace and the sound of steeping tea.
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‎He poured the first cup slowly, the liquid amber and clear. He always poured for two, still. The second cup sat across from him, untouched. It always would.
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‎He lifted his own cup, cradling it between his palms. The warmth seeped into his fingers. He inhaled deeply — floral, earthy, a hint of roast. He took the first sip, letting it sit on his tongue, eyes closed.
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‎It was never just about the tea. It was about being with the tea. Years ago, when the world moved faster and his thoughts raced even faster still, it was Anna who taught him to slow down.
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‎"Sit," she’d said once, gently tugging him away from his laptop. "Breathe. Drink this."
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‎He had grumbled, as he always did when interrupted. But he sat. And he drank.
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‎It was jasmine green that first time. Light and fragrant. He remembered blinking at her in surprise. “It tastes like a garden in the spring,” he’d said.
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‎She smiled. “Exactly. Tea listens to the season. Maybe you should, too.”
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‎They made it a ritual. Sunday mornings. Just the two of them, no phones, no clocks. They sat across from each other in silence, speaking only when the tea called for words. The ritual grounded them — through promotions, relocations, even through grief when her mother passed. Tea became their shared language.
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‎After the diagnosis, Anna had joked, “Well, at least I’ll have time for more tea.”
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‎He had laughed then, because that’s what you do when your heart breaks in slow motion. But they kept drinking. Even when she could barely hold the cup, he would brew, he would pour, and he would sip for both of them.
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‎After she passed, the house changed. Or maybe it was he who changed. For a while, the tea grew cold in the pot, untouched. The ritual felt like a cruel echo. But one morning, without thinking, he found himself boiling water again, hand hovering over the jars. He chose Jin Xuan, their favorite oolong. Mellow. But with depth.
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‎And he sat. Alone, but not entirely.
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‎Today’s brew was just right. Smooth, with a buttery warmth that lingered. He smiled faintly. He could almost hear her voice: “You used too much leaf again.”
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‎He looked across the table at the empty chair, then out the window. The garden was overgrown now, but still wild with life — hummingbirds darted between the lavender, bees flirted with the marigolds. The world continued.
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‎So did the tea.
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‎He stood, refilled the pot with hot water, and poured another cup — for her.
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‎“I know,” he murmured. “Too much leaf.”
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‎The room held its silence, but it was a full kind of silence, steeped in memory, not absence.
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‎Outside, the wind shifted. Inside, the steam rose again.
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‎And Thomas drank.
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