The dead do not like to be kept waiting but the living will try to stall them for an eternity if the tea is sweet enough. The shop had no sign. It sat on the lip of the Weeping Pass, a jagged scar of rock high in the Whitecrown Mountains where the air was so thin it tasted like metal. To the south lay the valleys of the living, green and ignorant. To the north lay the Mist, a wall of roiling, silent white that marked the border of the Unseen. The shop was called The Veil’s Edge though only the locals knew it by name. To everyone else it was just the last structure before the end of the world.
Elara wiped the counter. The wood was dark, stained by centuries of spilled tannin and tears. She moved with the economic precision of a woman who had optimized her life down to a series of necessary frictions. She was fifty, or perhaps sixty, the mountain wind had weathered her skin into something durable and timeless, like cured leather. She wore a heavy woolen apron over a dress of practical gray, her silver hair braided tight enough to withstand a gale. She checked the kettle. The water was simmering. One hundred and eighty degrees. Perfect for white tea. Too cold for black. She checked the cups. Ceramic fired in the valley kilns glazed in a blue so deep it looked like a bruise. They were fragile. That was the point. Finally she looked at the shelf.
It was the highest shelf tucked in the shadow of the ceiling beams. There were no tea tins there, no jars of dried sage or lavender. There was only one object. A wooden horse. It was a clumsy thing whittled from pine by a hand that hadn’t yet learned steadiness. The paint was chipped revealing the pale wood beneath. The left ear was missing. Elara stared at it. She felt the familiar ache in her chest, a physical weight that had settled behind her sternum ten years ago and never moved. It was a heavy, cold stone. She had learned to breathe around it. She had learned to work around it. She had built her entire life around the preservation of that stone.
The wind howled outside, a high, desperate shriek that rattled the iron shutters. Snow hissed against the glass. The bell above the door rang. It wasn’t a cheerful chime, it was a dull, singular clank of brass. The door opened letting the storm in. A figure stumbled across the threshold wrapped in furs that were matted with ice. The intruder slammed the door shut leaning against it gasping for air. The wind died instantly cut off by the heavy oak leaving only the sound of the kettle hissing and the stranger’s ragged breathing. Elara didn’t look up from the counter. She picked up a rag and polished a spot that was already clean.
“We are closed for service,” she said. Her voice was like the mountain, cold, hard, and indifferent to complaint. “The pass is blocked. You should turn back.”
The stranger pulled down their hood. It was a girl barely twenty, her face flushed with the kind of cold that kills. Her eyes were wide, rimmed with red, terror warring with exhaustion.
“I can’t go back,” the girl whispered. Her voice cracked. “I have… I have something.”
Elara stopped polishing. She looked up. She saw the desperation in the girl’s stance, the way her hands were clutched to her chest, protecting something beneath the layers of fur. Elara had seen that posture a thousand times. It was the posture of someone carrying a burden they were terrified to put down.
“Everything has a price,” Elara said. “And the currency here is not gold.”
“I know,” the girl said. She stepped forward, shivering as the warmth of the shop hit her frozen skin. “They told me in the village. They said… they said you could let me say sorry.”
Elara sighed. “Apologies are heavy, child. Usually too heavy for the brew.”
“Please.” The girl reached into her coat. Her hands were shaking so badly she fumbled nearly dropping the object. She placed it on the counter.
It was a silver locket. It was tarnished, the chain knotted. It sat on the dark wood looking small and insignificant. Elara looked at the locket then at the girl. She saw the ghost of a story in the girl’s eyes, a sickbed left unattended, a final breath taken in an empty room, a lifetime of regret compressed into a single moment of absence.
“What is your name?” Elara asked.
“Lydia.”
“And who are we disturbing Lydia?”
“My grandmother,” Lydia choked out. “Vera. She… she raised me. And I wasn’t there. I was… I was at the festival. I didn’t know.”
Elara picked up the locket. It was cold. It held the residue of a life, the oil of skin, the faint scent of rosewater, the echo of a heartbeat. It was a strong anchor.
“Sit,” Elara said, gesturing to the single round table by the window. “Do not take off your coat. The chill comes from inside the room when we begin.”
Lydia sat. She looked small in the chair. She stared at the window, where the white mist pressed against the glass like a face. Elara moved behind the counter. She did not hurry. Hurry was the enemy of the brew. She selected a canister of leaves, Camellia Sinensis, grown in the shadow of a graveyard. She measured three grams. She placed them in the clay pot.
“You know the rules?” Elara asked, her back to the girl.
“I… I think so.”
Elara turned. She held the iron tongs. “Listen closely Lydia. I will say this once. I will take this locket. I will place it in the water. The essence of the object will bind with the steam.”
She pointed to the table. “She will appear. She will sit with you. She will be as she was in the memory the locket holds.”
Lydia nodded, tears spilling over.
“But,” Elara’s voice dropped, becoming sharp as a blade. “She remains only as long as the tea is warm. Physics governs the spirit as much as the flesh. As the heat leaves the water, the connection fades. When the cup is cold, she is gone.”
“I understand,” Lydia whispered.
“And the Cardinal Rule,” Elara said. She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto Lydia’s. “You must never under any circumstances reheat the tea. To add fire to a cooling spirit is to trap them in the burn. It is agony. It is a crime against nature. Do you understand?”
Lydia went pale. “I understand. I promise.”
“Good.”
Elara turned back to the kettle. The water was ready. She dropped the silver locket into the pot. It didn’t clink. It hissed. The water turned a violent, swirling gray. The steam that rose from the spout was a pale, shimmering blue. It smelled of old paper and rain. Elara poured. She didn’t pour into a delicate cup. She poured into a heavy earthenware mug, thick-walled to hold the heat. She filled it to the brim. She carried the mug to the table and set it down opposite Lydia.
“Drink slowly,” Elara said. “But do not dawdle.”
Elara retreated to the shadows of the counter. She picked up her rag. She became furniture. She became part of the room’s architecture, present but unobserving. Lydia stared at the empty chair opposite her. The steam rose from the mug, curling, twisting, thickening. It coalesced. It didn’t happen with a flash of light. It happened like a drawing being sketched by an invisible hand. First the outline of shoulders, then the texture of a knitted shawl, then the face. Vera sat there. She looked solid. She looked tired, but comfortable. She was wearing a house dress Lydia recognized. Her hands were folded on the table. She looked at the mug of tea then up at Lydia.
“You’re too thin,” Vera said. Her voice was clear stripped of the rattle that had plagued her final weeks. “Are you eating enough?”
Lydia let out a sound that was half-sob, half-scream. She reached across the table, her hand passing through the steam near Vera’s arm. She pulled back, afraid to disrupt the spell.
“Gran,” Lydia wept. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Vera frowned, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening. “Sorry for what, bird? Did you break the good vase?”
“I wasn’t there!” Lydia slammed her hand on the table. “I was dancing. I was drinking wine. And you were dying. You were all alone in the dark and I was laughing.”
Elara watched from the corner. She felt the stone in her own chest throb. Guilt, she thought. The most common flavor.
Vera sighed. She reached out and touched the mug. Her hand didn’t go through it, instead she rested her spectral fingers against the warmth.
“Oh, child,” Vera said softly. “You think I wanted you watching me rot? You think I wanted my last memory of you to be your scared face hovering over my bed?”
Lydia froze. “I… I should have been there.”
“I was in the garden,” Vera said. Her eyes drifted to the window seeing something beyond the mist. “In my head. I was planting the hydrangeas. The blue ones. The ones that need the acid soil. I could feel the dirt under my fingernails. It was peaceful, Lydia. If you had been there crying and wailing you would have dragged me back into the room. You would have made me look at the pain.”
“But you were alone,” Lydia whispered.
“We are all alone in the doorway,” Vera said. “But I wasn’t lonely. I could hear the music from the village. I knew you were dancing. That made it easier to go. I thought, ‘At least the bird is flying.’”
Lydia put her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook. Elara checked the time. The mug was cooling. The steam was thinning.
“Drink Lydia,” Elara warned from the shadows. “The heat is fading.”
Lydia looked up. Vera’s edges were blurring. The details of her shawl were turning back into mist.
“I miss you,” Lydia said, desperate now. She grabbed the mug. “I don’t know how to be in the house without you. It’s too quiet.”
“Then get a cat,” Vera said, her voice sounding distant, like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel. “And fix the back step. It’s loose.”
“Gran, wait—”
“I love you, bird. Don’t let the frost get the hydrangeas.”
Vera was transparent now. Just an outline of smoke. Lydia looked at the mug. It was half full. She brought it to her lips. She drank. She drank the tea, swallowing the heat, swallowing the magic. As she drained the cup Vera vanished. Not dramatically. She just ceased to be there. The chair was empty. The steam was gone. Lydia slammed the empty mug down. She stared at the chair.
“She’s gone,” Lydia said.
“She was already gone,” Elara said gently. She moved from the counter and picked up the mug. “You just needed to see that she wasn’t angry.”
Lydia sat there for a long time. The wind battered the house. Slowly the girl stood up. She wiped her face with her sleeve. She looked exhausted, hollowed out, but the frenetic terror was gone. The tension that had held her shoulders up by her ears had snapped.
“How much do I owe you?” Lydia asked.
“The locket stays,” Elara said. “It is spent. It has no value in this world anymore.”
Lydia looked at the spot on the table where the locket had been. It was gone, dissolved into the brew.
“Okay,” Lydia said. She buttoned her coat. She pulled up her hood.
She walked to the door. She paused, her hand on the latch.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Go,” Elara said. “Before the snow buries the path.”
Lydia opened the door. The cold rushed in again, biting and aggressive. But Lydia stepped into it without flinching. She disappeared into the white. Elara locked the door. She slid the heavy iron bolt home. She flipped the sign in the window to CLOSED. She carried the mug to the basin. She washed it. She dried it. She placed it on the rack.
The shop was silent. Elara leaned against the counter. She closed her eyes. She should feel satisfied. It was a good brew. A clean break. The girl would heal. The grandmother was at peace. But Elara didn’t feel satisfied. She felt the stone in her chest expanding. It felt jagged today. She looked at the empty chair. She imagined Lydia walking down the mountain, lighter, unburdened. Lydia had walked through the fire of grief and come out the other side. Elara looked up at the high shelf. The wooden horse sat in the shadows.
“Ten years,” she whispered to the empty room.
She wasn’t protecting Lina. She knew that now. Vera’s words echoed in the quiet shop. You would have dragged me back into the room. You would have made me look at the pain. By keeping the horse, by refusing to brew the tea, Elara wasn’t saving Lina. She was keeping her in the hallway. She was forcing her daughter to stand on the doormat of the afterlife waiting for the door to open, shivering in the draft. It was cruel. It was the cruelest thing a mother could do.
Elara pushed off the counter. Her legs felt heavy. She walked to the back of the shop. She grabbed the stepladder. She set it up beneath the high shelf. She climbed. Her joints popped. The air up here was warmer, trapped by the ceiling. She reached out. Her hand hovered over the horse. Her fingers trembled. This was the only thing she had left. If she brewed this she would have nothing. No anchor. No weight. She would just be an old woman in a tea shop at the end of the world. She grabbed the horse. It was light. So surprisingly light. Pine and paint. She climbed down. She walked to the kettle. She didn’t look at it. She couldn’t look at it. If she looked at the horse, she would put it back. She would make an excuse. Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow.
She filled the kettle. fresh water. Cold from the mountain spring. She set it on the stove. She lit the burner. The flame caught blue and steady. She waited. The water began to heat. Small bubbles. Then larger ones. Elara took the wooden horse. She held it to her lips for a second. It smelled of dust. She dropped it into the pot. It clattered against the metal. The water didn’t turn gray this time. It turned a soft, golden amber. The steam that rose didn’t smell like rain or silver. It smelled of warm milk. It smelled of wet wool mittens drying by a fire. It smelled of strawberry jam. It smelled like her life before the silence.
Elara took a cup. Not the heavy earthenware mug. She took her own cup, white porcelain, thin as an eggshell. She poured. Her hands shook so badly she spilled a little on the saucer. She carried the cup to the table. She sat in the chair Lydia had vacated. She waited. The steam swirled. It was playful. It curled in spirals. And then she was there. Lina. She was seven. She was wearing her red jumper, the one with the hole in the elbow that Elara had meant to patch. Her hair was messy, a tangle of dark curls that defied every comb.
She was sitting in the chair opposite Elara, her legs swinging back and forth. Her feet didn’t touch the floor. Thump, thump, thump against the chair legs. Elara stopped breathing. Lina looked around the shop. She didn’t look scared. She didn’t look like a spirit. She looked bored. She looked at Elara. Her eyes were bright, clear, and maddeningly familiar.
“Hi, Mama,” Lina said.
Elara opened her mouth. No sound came out. She tried again. “Lina.” It came out as a sob.
Lina stopped swinging her legs. She leaned forward on her elbows. “Did you fix the roof?”
Elara blinked. The world tilted on its axis. She had prepared a speech. She had prepared an apology that spanned a decade. She had prepared to beg for forgiveness for keeping her child trapped.
“The… the roof?” Elara stammered.
“The leak,” Lina said, gesturing vaguely upward. “In my room. It went drip-drip-drip on the floor. It sounded like a drum. It was loud.”
Elara stared at her. “That… that is what you want to know?”
“I liked the drum,” Lina said, shrugging. “But Daddy said it would rot the beams.”
Elara let out a laugh. It was a wet, broken sound. “I fixed it, baby. I fixed it a long time ago. Daddy fixed it before he… before he left.”
“Good,” Lina said. She looked at the tea cup in front of Elara. “Is that the special tea?”
“Yes,” Elara said. “It’s the special tea.”
“It smells like breakfast.”
“It is.”
Elara reached out. She wanted to touch Lina’s face. She wanted to feel the curls. But she knew the rules. She couldn’t touch. She could only witness.
“I’m sorry,” Elara whispered. “I’m so sorry I made you wait.”
Lina tilted her head. “Wait? I wasn’t waiting.”
“You… you weren’t?”
“No,” Lina said. “I was playing. In the field. The one with the big rocks. It’s always summer there, Mama. And the grass is really tall. I was chasing the rabbits. They’re fast.”
Elara felt the stone in her chest crack. A hairline fracture running down the center. “You were playing?”
“Yeah. But sometimes I could hear you,” Lina said. She looked serious for a moment. “You were crying. It was really loud. Louder than the roof.”
“I know,” Elara wept. tears ran down her face, dripping onto her apron. “I’m sorry I was loud.”
“It’s okay,” Lina said. “But you should stop now. The rabbits are waiting for you too. But not yet. You have to feed the cat.”
“We don’t have a cat, Lina.”
“You should get one,” Lina said, echoing the grandmother from earlier. “A orange one. They’re the best.”
Elara looked down at the cup. The steam was thinning. The amber liquid was settling. Panic. Pure, primal panic seized Elara’s heart. It was too short. It had been five minutes. Ten years for five minutes? It wasn’t a fair trade. It wasn’t enough time. She hadn’t told her about the village. She hadn’t told her about how much she missed her. She hadn’t told her she loved her enough times. Elara looked at the kettle on the stove. It was still hot. The flame was still on. Reheat the tea. The thought was a siren song. Just a splash. Just a little more heat. Five more minutes. I can keep her here. Elara stood up. She reached for the kettle.
“Mama,” Lina said.
Elara froze, her hand hovering over the handle of the hot kettle. She looked back at the table. Lina wasn’t looking at the kettle. She was looking at Elara. Her expression wasn’t bored anymore. It was old. Ancient and wise and terribly young all at once.
“Don’t,” Lina said.
“I just want a little more time,” Elara pleaded. “Just a little.”
“It gets bitter,” Lina said. “If you cook it too long, it tastes bad. You taught me that.”
Elara’s hand shook. “Please, Lina.”
“I have to go back to the field,” Lina said. “The sun is going down there. I have to catch the fireflies.”
Elara looked at the kettle. Then at her daughter. To add the water was to burn her. To force her to stay was to act out of selfishness, not love. It was the same as keeping the horse on the shelf. It was dragging the dead back into the sickroom because the living were too scared to be alone. Elara pulled her hand back. She turned off the stove. The blue flame died. She walked back to the table. She sat down. She lifted the cup. It was lukewarm.
“I love you, bean,” Elara said.
Lina smiled. It was a smile that broke the world. It was missing a front tooth. “I know,” Lina said. “I love you too. Fix the floorboard in the hall. It squeaks.”
“I will.”
“Bye Mama.”
Elara raised the cup. She closed her eyes. She drank. The tea was cold. It tasted of pine and sweet milk. It tasted of an ending. She swallowed the last drop. When she opened her eyes, the chair was empty. The shop was silent. The wind outside had stopped. Elara sat there. She waited for the crushing weight to return. She waited for the scream to build in her throat. But it didn’t come.
The stone in her chest was gone. In its place was a vast, aching crater. It hurt. God, it hurt. But it was open. It was air. It was space. She looked at the table. The cup was empty. The saucer was wet with her spilled tears. The wooden horse was gone. Elara put her head down on her arms and wept. She wept until the candle burned down to the nub. She wept until the cold crept into her bones. And then she slept.
She woke to light. It wasn’t the gray, diffuse light of the mist. It was sharp. Gold. Elara sat up. Her neck was stiff. She was cold. She stood up and walked to the window. The storm had broken. The mist had retreated, pulling back from the pass like a tide going out. The sky was a piercing, impossible blue. The sun was cresting the peaks of the Whitecrowns painting the snow in shades of apricot and violet. Elara unlocked the door. She threw the bolt. She stepped out onto the balcony.
The air was freezing. It bit at her exposed skin. But for the first time in years she didn’t pull her coat tighter. She let the cold touch her. She breathed in. It smelled of pine and ice. She looked back into the shop. It looked different. It looked smaller. It looked like just a shop, not a temple. She looked at the high shelf. It was empty. There was a clean square in the dust where the horse had been. Elara stared at the empty space. She didn’t feel the urge to fill it.
“A cat,” she said aloud. Her voice was raspy, unused to speaking in the morning. “Orange.”
She nodded. She turned back to the view. She watched the sun rise until it blinded her, until the tears in her eyes were just from the brightness and nothing else. Elara went back inside. She filled the kettle. She lit the stove. The dead were gone. The living were thirsty. She flipped the sign in the window.
OPEN.