Chapter Two | The Quiet Work

The first chore was sweeping leaves from the stone path.

They didn’t ask her to do it. In fact, no one said much at all. But when Yui arrived the next morning, a simple straw broom leaned against the doorframe — waiting, not commanding.

She took it without a word and began.

The leaves were papery and curled, some still fragrant with yesterday’s rain. They made soft sounds as she gathered them, like the rustling of old letters. She swept slowly, letting the rhythm anchor her. Back and forth. Back and forth. Not for perfection — just for care.

Inside the teahouse, the same three customers from the day before sat in their usual spots. She wondered if they ever left. If they lived somewhere inside the woodwork and simply emerged with the morning light.

Aya-san nodded to her from behind the counter. A soft acknowledgment. No words, but Yui felt it all the same: You belong here, even if you don’t know why yet.

After sweeping, she washed dishes. The water was hot, the kind that turned fingertips pink and made her sleeves damp at the edges. Aya-san worked beside her, slicing ginger root, her movements methodical and soundless. The scent filled the kitchen—sharp and warm—and for a moment, Yui forgot what sadness even smelled like.

Later, Aya-san handed her a steaming bowl of soup without a single instruction. It was for the older man seated near the window, the one who always read but never turned the page.

Yui carried it carefully, both hands wrapped around the bowl’s warmth. When she set it down, the man looked up.

“Thank you,” he said in a voice like gravel softened by water.

She bowed, and before she could turn away, he added, “You sweep like someone who’s trying to remember something.”

She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a secret. Either way, it stayed with her.

That night, as she lay on her futon in the tiny apartment above the teahouse, Yui stared at the ceiling and whispered into the dark:

“I think I’m learning how to stay.”