Chapter One | A Scent of Something Familiar

Yuki first passed the teahouse by accident.

It sat quietly at the end of a narrow stone path, tucked between an incense shop and a florist that only ever seemed to be open in the mornings. No sign above the door. Just a wooden noren curtain dyed in the softest apricot hue, shifting gently in the breeze.

She hadn’t meant to stop. She hadn’t meant to do anything, really. Her suitcase wheels stuttered on the uneven stones behind her, and her shoulders ached in that way they did when you’ve been holding your breath for too many months.

The door creaked, but kindly. And the smell—oh, the smell—wrapped around her like something maternal: miso and rice, roasted barley, and something floral she couldn’t name.

A woman stood behind the counter, not startled to see her, not expectant either. Just… present. Her gray hair was swept back into a loose braid, and her hands rested in front of her like she had just finished something important.

“You’re early,” the woman said, smiling gently.

Yuki blinked. “Early?”

“For your arrival,” she said, already pouring tea. “But not too early for tea.”

And that was how it began.

Not with a decision. Not with a plan. But with steam rising from a ceramic cup, and a silence that asked nothing of her.

She sat near the window, watching as a small cat leapt from one sun-warmed tile to the next outside. The walls were lined with cookbooks and wind chimes, with apricot blossoms pressed into the corners of the paper lampshades.

The tea tasted like rice fields and summer evenings. It made her eyes sting a little—but not in a sad way.

She didn’t speak much that first visit. The woman—Aika, she later learned—didn’t press. Just set down a second cup before disappearing into the kitchen, humming something that sounded like the memory of spring.

When Yuki left, the air felt lighter. And for the first time in weeks, her body didn’t rush to fill the silence.

She didn’t know she’d return the next day. Or the day after that. Or that she would end up staying far longer than she ever meant to.

But that’s the thing about places that welcome you before you even ask— They have a way of steeping into your life, quietly. Like the kind of tea that never quite cools.