A year later, James had fully recovered.
Every morning, we pushed the old bicycle out to the street, bought hot bread, and then went back to the porch to drink tea together.
He said, just hearing me make tea, he felt his heart was still alive.
Sometimes, someone asked me:
“Sarah, have you ever wished you had met James sooner?”
I shook my head and smiled:
“No. Because if I had met him sooner, I might not have been hurt enough to understand what true love is.”
That day, it was raining lightly.
I made two cups of tea, as usual.
Yet 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 passing, 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.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
