She watched him as he took that first sip—no pressure in her gaze, just a quiet curiosity that came from years of reading people through the way they held their shoulders or avoided their cup.
"Well?" she asked gently, tilting her head just a little. "What do you think?"
Temoshí lowered the cup, his fingers resting lightly around the rim. He looked into the amber-colored liquid for a long breath, as if unsure how to answer something so simple.
"It's... strange," he said softly. "Not the taste. That's good."
A pause.
"It's the stillness."
The old woman arched a brow, leaning back into her seat.
"I've never really sat like this before," he continued, glancing around the warm, tea-scented room with its low shelves, soft light, and the sound of the children whispering over by the counter. "Not like this. Not quiet. Not... steady."
He gave a faint chuckle under his breath, the kind that sounded like it hadn't been used in a while. "Usually when I stop moving, it's surrounded by noise. People. Laughter. Fights. Someone making a toast too loud, or Razor throwing chairs just to prove a point. It always ended in chaos... the good kind."
"But this," he said, lifting the cup again and staring at the rising steam, "this is different. It's not loud. It's not fast. It's just... peace."
She smiled, that kind of knowing smile only time can shape. "Funny how we often run the hardest from the quiet. Like it's the only thing in the world sharp enough to cut through armor."
Temoshí didn't argue.
He simply nodded and took another sip.
And for once, he didn't feel the need to fill the silence with anything else.
As the quiet stretched between them, filled only with the soft clink of cups and the faint crackle of heat from the small kettle behind the counter, the two children tiptoed closer to the table—hovering just far enough to be noticed.
"Grandma," the girl said, gently tugging at the woman's sleeve, "can we go play in the back?"
The boy chimed in quickly, bouncing a little on his toes. "We'll be careful. Promise."
The old woman gave them both a fond glance, then nodded toward the beaded curtain near the rear exit. "Go on then. But no climbing the barrels again, and if I hear any arguing, you're helping me grind ginger root for the rest of the week."
The boy visibly winced. "Not the ginger root…"
"Then no arguments," she replied with a small smirk.
The children scampered off, the curtain rustling as they slipped into the back courtyard—a quiet little garden space tucked between neighboring stone walls, shaded by ivy and cluttered with crates, potted herbs, and weathered benches.
Once they were gone, the old woman leaned back in her chair, cradling her cup between both hands.
"They're good kids," she said softly, her eyes lingering on the curtain. "They don't belong to me by blood, but they've been mine in every way that matters."
Temoshí glanced toward her, quietly attentive.
"Their mother was my niece," she continued, her voice slowing just a touch. "She passed twelve years ago. The twins were only four at the time—barely out of toddlerhood, still stumbling through their words and following her like shadows."
She paused, eyes drifting toward the window.
"No one really knows what happened. She never came home from her errands one evening. They found her the next morning, near the south ridge. No marks. No wounds. No explanation. Just... gone."
Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup.
"The authorities filed it away as 'natural causes.' But there was nothing natural about it. She was young. Strong. No illness, no warnings. Just... silence."
Temoshí didn't speak. He let the weight of those words settle.
"Their father is a marine," she went on. "A good man, but sworn to duty. He buried her with what dignity he could, then went back to his post. It wasn't his fault. He didn't know what else to do. But the house was too quiet for the children. So they came to me."
She glanced toward the shelves, where tiny handprints had once stained the wood with honey.
"They learned the scent of tea leaves before they learned to write. Learned to sneak sugar and label jars with crooked handwriting. This shop became their whole world."
Temoshí glanced again at the curtain, where the sound of their laughter played like a faint song against the walls.
"They seem alright," he murmured. "Still know how to smile."
The old woman nodded slowly. "I've done what I can to keep that light in them. Lyvoria Crest is full of old stories and unfinished endings. It leaves marks. But children should be allowed to grow without the weight of things they'll never understand."
Temoshí looked down at his tea, the steam rising like a question unanswered.
"Reminds me of someone," he said quietly. "Someone who smiled even when the ground kept shifting under her feet. Like she had to outrun whatever was waiting behind her."
The woman tilted her head, her voice warm. "Someone close?"
He nodded—soft, slow. "Closer than I knew."
She said nothing more.
Instead, she raised her cup, and they drank in silence, with the warmth of steeped herbs between them and the echo of children's laughter just beyond the veil.
Temoshí took another sip, then rested the cup gently against the table, his fingers lingering at its base. His gaze drifted—not just toward the curtain where the children played, but somewhere further, deeper. Somewhere older.
"…She reminds me of my mother too."
The old woman said nothing, only gave him her silence—the kind that invited, not demanded.
"She was... loud," he said after a moment, a faint breath of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Always doing something. Fixing things. Talking to herself while she worked. She used to sing while sweeping, hum songs no one else remembered. She filled the house with sound—maybe so it wouldn't feel as empty as it really was."
His voice grew quieter.
"I never knew my father. Never even saw a picture. She never spoke his name. And I... never asked."
There was a shift in the air. Not just reflection now—but exposure. Like a piece of himself he hadn't let out in years had suddenly stepped into the light.
"This is the first time I've said that out loud," he admitted. "Like if I didn't give it words, it couldn't shape me. Like it didn't matter. But it did."
The old woman didn't reply, only watched him with a softness in her expression—no pity, just understanding worn smooth by time.
"I always thought I'd ask her one day," Temoshí continued. "When I was older. When it felt right. But she was gone before I knew how to ask anything that mattered."
His fingers curled slightly around the cooling porcelain.
"I think... she was afraid I'd turn out like him. So she erased him. No stories. No memories. Just... silence."
He let out a faint breath, then glanced toward the beaded curtain again, where the children's voices still danced faintly from the courtyard.
"That silence stayed with me," he murmured. "Even when everything else moved on."
The woman set her cup down, her voice just as quiet. "And yet here you are. Not him. Not hollow. Just carrying things carefully, because no one showed you how to drop them."
Temoshí didn't reply, not with words.
But slowly, his grip on the cup eased.
He sat back, the weight still there—but no longer something he held alone. And for the first time in a very long while, the silence didn't feel like a threat.
It just felt real. And shared.
A few more moments passed, the kind that didn't need filling. Just the sound of distant laughter, the hush of wind brushing the window, and the warmth of shared quiet.
Then, the old woman shifted slightly, setting her cup down with a soft clink. A small, almost sheepish smile tugged at her lips.
"I just realized," she said gently, "I never asked your name. Or even gave you mine. How rude of me."
Temoshí blinked, caught off guard by the shift—but not unpleasantly so. He straightened a little, the weight of their earlier conversation still sitting with him, but softer now.
She placed a hand over her chest, nodding once. "My name's Livia. Most around here call me Granny, or Ma'am, or 'the tea lady.' But if someone sits at my table and carries silence with grace… they deserve a proper name in return."
Temoshí gave a faint chuckle under his breath. "Livia," he repeated, tasting the name. "That suits you."
Her eyes twinkled, amused. "Strong and wrinkled?"
"More like rooted," he replied. "Sounds like someone who's weathered a storm and stayed standing."
Livia laughed—a warm, quiet sound that curled around the air like steam. "That's a new one. I might keep it."
Temoshí tilted his head slightly, offering a simple, honest response. "Temoshí."
She nodded in return. "Temoshí. A solid name."
"For someone who didn't introduce himself either," he added dryly.
Livia smirked. "Then I suppose we're even."
Their exchange didn't linger long. It didn't need to. The names were spoken, and with them, something wordless passed between them—recognition not just of identity, but of presence.
Two people with pasts they rarely voiced.
Now, sharing tea. And letting the silence speak.
Livia watched him for a few moments longer, the calm between them settled like dusk light on old stone.
Then, with a subtle tilt of her head, she asked, "Temoshí… do you even have a place to stay tonight?"
He didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on the rim of his cup, fingers brushing lightly against the ceramic. When he finally did speak, his voice came quieter—without deflection, but not quite vulnerable either.
"No," he admitted. "Not really."
Livia said nothing, letting him go on at his own pace.
"I've been walking since morning," he continued. "Figured I'd keep going until my legs gave out or the sky did. Wasn't planning to stop anywhere specific." His tone was calm, but his words carried a subtle, tired honesty. "Didn't want to stay at a tavern. Didn't want to run into anyone I knew."
She nodded, understanding not just his words, but everything behind them.
"There's been a lot lately," he added after a pause. "Things that didn't go the way they should've. People I didn't think I'd lose. I guess... I didn't want to sleep surrounded by noise or drink. Just needed the quiet. Something still."
Livia took that in, the weight of it. Then she rose slowly from her chair, her joints clicking softly with age as she moved behind the counter. She didn't say anything at first, only reached into a low cupboard and pulled out a folded blanket with the scent of lavender and warm wood still clinging to it.
"I don't have much room," she said, returning to the table. "But there's a cot in the back, near the shelves. Not much more than a corner and a window, but it's clean. And still. You can stay as long as you need."
Temoshí blinked, not expecting the offer to come so easily—or so kindly.
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough," Livia said with a small smile. "You helped an old woman carry her herbs, drank your tea slow, and didn't lie when silence could've done the job."
She set the blanket down beside him with a gentle firmness. "Besides, no one who watches children laugh like that and doesn't flinch is a stranger in my book."
Temoshí looked at the blanket, then at her. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he gave the smallest nod—one of quiet gratitude.
"…Thank you."
Livia waved a hand like it was nothing at all. "Just don't snore louder than the kettle, and we'll get along just fine."
And for the first time since stepping foot on Lyvoria Crest, Temoshí felt something stir beneath the noise of memory and the ache of distance.
He felt… welcomed.
To be continued...