They served it in a metal pot, already dented.
The cups didn’t match.
And the tray was slightly slanted, like the whole tea set had made peace with gravity.
But the view — oh, the view — held the silence for me.
I didn’t ask what kind of tea it was.
It was warm.
A little floral. A little roasted.
Enough.
And I remember thinking, “This moment doesn’t want anything from me.” Not action. Not answers. Not even thoughts. Just… presence.
I sat with the steam. Let it rise around my face.
Let the wind take it.
And suddenly, I didn’t feel behind. Or late.
Or uncertain.
Just still. And very softly, grateful.
Some tea doesn’t wake you up.
It slows you down. It teaches you that rest isn’t delay. It’s arrival.