The Guest Who Stayed for Tea

He arrived on a breeze,
not loud, not knocking —
just drifted in through the half-open window
as if the room had always been his.

The kettle was warm that day.
The porcelain smiled,
and the silence, long abandoned,
stretched itself into comfort again.

He sat in the armchair
as though it had grown from his spine.
Asked for nothing,
but everything rearranged itself
to make him feel at home.

The sugar knew his measure
before he spoke.
The clock paused, shy.
Even the wallpaper leaned in,
listening for the music in his unspoken thoughts.

For days,
he stirred the tea with a quiet kind of hunger,
never spilling —
never sipping too deep.

He complimented the weather,
the windows, the view,
but not the one who dusted the corners of the space
just so the light could enter.

Sometimes,
he left his coat on the chair.
And sometimes,
he left entirely.

But the room…
it stayed prepared.
Just in case.

She stopped naming him aloud.
Stopped asking the walls if they'd heard his footsteps.
But still —
she refilled the sugar jar.
Still folded silence into napkins,
like old letters never sent.

One morning,
he walked in again —
with footsteps that didn’t pause at the threshold.
He spoke of new addresses,
more efficient kettles,
and the friend who had better hands
for brewing things right.

He complimented the cup
but didn’t notice the crack
he had left years ago.
And when he left that day,
for good,
he didn’t take his coat.

She washed the last cup
slowly —
like a ceremony,
or maybe an exorcism.

The wind still came,
but softer.
And the window,
now firmly latched,
reflected back a face
that didn’t wait anymore.

The chair remained.
So did the light.
But the tea?
It learned how to steep for one.

- Khushi Kaul