I made two cups of tea, as usual.
But James was no longer sitting on the wooden chair on the porch.
He was lying in the bedroom, his breathing was getting weaker.
I held his hand, saying through my tears:
“Don’t go, James. I haven’t finished making today’s tea yet.”
He smiled, holding my hand tightly:
“I’ve made it. I smell cinnamon… That’s enough, Sarah.”
Then he gently closed his eyes, the smile still on his lips.
A year after James’s death, I still lived in that old house.
Every autumn morning, I still made two cups of tea, placing one in front of the empty chair.
I still whispered like before:
“James, the tea is ready. It’s just that this year, the maple leaves fell earlier.”
I know he’s still there – in the wind, in the scent of the tea, in my heartbeat.
There are loves that come late, but last forever – no need for vows, no need for time to prove.
Just one cup of autumn tea is enough to warm a lifetime.
