Temoshí strode the winding path of Lyvoria Crest with his hands tucked deep into his pockets, his steps steady, yet strangely detached. The bustle of daily life continued around him—locals passing with carts, shopkeepers calling out half-hearted deals, travelers offering him bread or dried fruit in hopes of sparking conversation or trade. But he barely acknowledged them. A nod here. A glance there. Never stopping, never accepting. His interest, like his thoughts, was elsewhere.
Then, just ahead, a soft grunt caught his attention.
An elder woman stood at the side of the path, hunched beside a basket that had tipped over, its contents spilled across the stones—small fruits, dried herbs, a cracked bottle of oil now dripping slowly into the dust. Her arms trembled as she reached down, struggling to lift both the weight and her own balance.
Temoshí paused.
Without a word, he stepped off the path and knelt beside her. She looked up, surprised—not fearful, just quietly startled—as he began gathering the scattered goods into her basket with calm, efficient movements. No fanfare. No questions. Just action.
She tried to speak. "Oh—thank you, young man, but I can—"
"It's alright," he said, gently but firmly, not looking at her directly as he worked. "You don't need to push yourself."
She watched him for a moment, then gave a faint nod, her wrinkled hands loosening around the edge of the basket. When everything was returned, he lifted it with ease and set it into her arms with a careful touch.
"Be careful on the slope," he added, eyes finally meeting hers for a breath. There was warmth there—but distant, like the sun glimpsed behind clouds.
"Thank you," she said softly. "You've got kind eyes, even if you hide them."
Temoshí didn't answer that.
He just gave her a small nod and continued on, hands back in his pockets, his steps resuming as if the moment had barely happened.
But his pace had slowed—just slightly.
Temoshí took a few steps forward, but something about the old woman's unsteady gait—her basket clearly too heavy for her thin arms—made him stop again.
He turned, silent for a moment, then stepped back toward her.
"Here," he said, gently taking the basket from her hands before she could object.
"Oh, that's really not necessary—" she began, but her protest faded as he lifted it effortlessly and began walking beside her.
"I've got nowhere important to be," he said, eyes fixed ahead.
The woman let out a soft laugh. "Now that's a rare thing to hear from someone your age. Most young men rush around like time's on fire behind them."
Temoshí gave a faint smile, barely visible. "I've done enough rushing."
They walked together at a quiet pace, the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. Around them, the streets of Lyvoria Crest stretched in clean, deliberate lines—stone-paved roads between arched columns and carved facades, the faint scent of steam-warmed herbs drifting from the open shopfronts. Terra-cotta roofs curved in perfect symmetry, and ivy trailed down worn brick, framing every window like a painted border. It was a city that remembered its bones—old, sun-colored, and steeped in echoes.
For a time, there was only the sound of wind brushing against tiled rooftops and the distant calls of vendors calling out prices in lyrical tones.
"Do you live here?" she asked, glancing up at him.
"No," he replied simply. "Just passing through."
She hummed thoughtfully. "You've got the look of someone carrying a lot. But not in your hands."
Temoshí didn't respond immediately. He just kept walking, basket in hand, gaze forward.
"…People ever tell you you ask a lot of questions?" he said at last, his tone dry but not unkind.
"All the time," she said with a grin. "That's what happens when you outlive your pride. You start asking things no one else dares to."
He gave a low chuckle under his breath, short and surprised. "Sounds dangerous."
"It's worse being quiet," she replied. "That's when the world forgets to notice you're hurting."
Temoshí looked at her for a moment, the lines of his face softening just a little. He didn't speak, but something about her words landed with more weight than she likely realized.
They reached a modest shop tucked at the corner of a narrow crossroads. Its stone walls were stained golden with age, and small clay tiles curved up like leaves at the edge of the roof. A hand-painted wooden sign hung above the arched doorway: Via Tisana. The scent of steeped tea and dried herbs spilled from the open shutters, the warmth from within contrasting gently with the breeze outside.
"This is me," she said, smiling as she approached the entrance. "I run the shop here. Tea blends, mostly. Upstairs is my home."
He handed her the basket, then paused, his hand lingering on the handle a moment longer.
The woman noticed. Her gaze softened.
"You don't have to disappear just yet," she said, voice gentle but welcoming. "Come in. I'll make you something warm. You look like someone who doesn't sit down often."
Temoshí hesitated for a breath, eyes flicking toward the shop door. The scent of mint and lavender drifted faintly through the cracks, mingling with steam and old wood. He gave a slight nod.
"…Alright."
She pushed the door open with her shoulder, the little bell above it ringing out a soft chime as they stepped inside. The space beyond was cozy and steeped in an amber glow—sunlight filtering through colored glass panes, casting long bands of gold and green across smooth tiled floors. Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with labeled jars of herbs and blends, while a wide counter at the back held polished kettles, clay cups, and small copper spoons neatly stacked.
But as they entered, there was a sudden rustle of movement near the columns at the far end of the shop.
Two small figures darted behind one of the ornate stone pillars—siblings, no older than eight or nine, a girl and a boy. The girl peeked out first, curly dark hair half-covering her face, her wide eyes fixed on Temoshí with cautious curiosity. The boy pressed himself against her side, whispering something that made her shush him quickly.
Temoshí paused mid-step, blinking once.
The old woman chuckled as she set the basket down. "Ah, don't mind them. They help me tidy the shelves sometimes and eat half the sugar stock when I'm not looking. Their parents work the upper quarter."
She turned slightly and called gently, "It's alright, little ones. He's not here to break anything."
The girl peeked a bit farther, still holding onto the pillar, her eyes narrowing at Temoshí with suspicion as if she'd been appointed guardian of the shop.
"He's tall," the boy muttered behind her.
"He looks serious," the girl added, as if that alone made him dangerous.
Temoshí, still standing near the door, raised an eyebrow. "I'm not a statue, you know."
The girl blinked, startled by the dry reply. She slowly stepped out from behind the pillar, then pointed at him. "You looked like one."
The old woman laughed, already setting a kettle on to boil behind the counter. "They'll warm up to you once they smell cinnamon. Works every time."
Temoshí allowed himself a small breath of amusement—barely there, but enough to soften his posture. He stepped farther in, lowering himself into a seat near the window where the sunlight painted thin gold lines across the table.
"Cinnamon, huh?" he murmured, watching the steam begin to rise.
The boy finally peeked out from behind his sister, now just curious enough to linger in the open.
And for the first time in days, there was no grave beneath his feet. No echoes of judgment. Just the sound of water beginning to boil, the cautious steps of children, and the scent of tea filling the air.
As the children slowly crept closer—still eyeing Temoshí like he might turn to stone again at any moment—the old woman moved with practiced ease behind the low counter. Her hands moved with the rhythm of habit, pulling down small clay jars from the shelves, each marked with worn ink lettering in elegant, curling script.
She scooped a pinch from one, then another—blending them together in a wide, shallow bowl of polished olivewood.
Temoshí watched, silent but attentive, the soft motions of her hands drawing his gaze.
"What is it?" he asked finally.
She glanced up at him with a faint smile. "Something we call Caelora. Named after the high cliffs in the east, where the wind carries the scent of night herbs before the stars come out."
She stirred the mix gently, a soft shimmer of pale purple and green leaves catching the light.
"It's a calming blend," she continued. "Chamari leaf for rest, golden hyssop for the nerves, and a touch of red anise—it clears the mind, warms the body, and settles the kind of weight that doesn't show up in the bones, but presses behind the eyes."
Temoshí blinked. "Sounds like you've had practice treating people who don't talk much."
"Of course," she said without missing a beat, pouring hot water into the steeping bowl. "We get a lot of silent men around here. Soldiers. Traders. Grievers. They always want something strong—but what they need is to breathe again without their hands shaking."
The steam rose in delicate curls, bringing a rich, earthy sweetness into the air. The children had finally wandered over, standing on tiptoe to peek at the counter.
The girl reached toward the edge. "Is this the one that smells like honey and bark?"
"It is," the woman said, without turning. "But don't go sneaking a sip unless you're ready to nap halfway up the stairs."
She poured the tea into a thick, simple cup and brought it to Temoshí. The ceramic was warm to the touch, glazed in a soft faded blue. He accepted it silently, the scent hitting him before the taste ever could—lightly spiced, floral at first, but anchored by something deeper. Grounding.
"This'll help more than you realize," she said, settling across from him with her own cup. "Most people think they need answers. But sometimes, they just need to be still with something that doesn't expect anything from them."
Temoshí didn't answer right away.
He raised the cup, breathed in the warmth, and took a slow sip.
The silence, for once, didn't feel heavy.
It felt human.
To be continued...