The Teahouse at Dawn

Cold Tea

He froze suddenly, dazed, staring at the wooden chest that now lay open.

He still remembered—back then, the boy had panicked and stuffed something hastily inside this very chest, refusing to open it no matter how gently he pleaded.

His legs gave out. Slowly, he sank to his knees and reached out to gather the stack of delicately stored rice paper. On each sheet, written with careful, clumsy strokes, were the same two characters:

Ming’er.

The name he had given him.

The name he had whispered, smiling, as he traced it onto the boy’s bare back on the night they first made love.

And now, it seemed he could see through the paper—see countless lonely nights where that illiterate boy, hunched under the flickering candlelight, had written those same two characters again and again, trying to make them perfect.

When he wasn’t satisfied with one, the boy would frown and gently tear the paper in half.

When he was pleased with another, his lips would curl ever so slightly, and he’d carefully tuck it away like a treasure.

A searing pain bloomed in his chest.

On the top few sheets, there were tiny flecks of dried blood—stark and silent.

He had always thought the boy didn’t truly care. That he had merely tolerated him, accepted him out of helplessness.

But he had never tried to understand—the way that affection, so shy and subtle, had hidden itself in every cup of tea, every clumsy character written with devotion.

He had driven away the boy’s father and made himself the boy’s only tether to the world—only to then, bit by bit, abandon him in turn.

That day of falling leaves and fading sun, the boy must have seen him. Must have watched as he turned away in haste, running from everything they once shared.

And he—did he know?

Know that just after his retreating back disappeared, behind him, blood bloomed in silence?

“Ming’er…” he called softly.

The room was empty and cold, offering no reply.

“Come out now… your lord can’t find you anymore…”

He smiled, gently, and murmured into the stillness.

Only the wind answered—howling outside the room like sobbing grief, mournful and unceasing.

⸻

The new servants in the household all found it odd.

Their master had yet to reach the age of forty, but suddenly handed over all his business dealings to the young heir and moved himself into the rundown courtyard at the edge of the estate.

Everyone knew that place was old, broken—rumored to be where someone had died.

But the master seemed unfazed.

In fact, he looked… quite content.

They often heard him murmuring to himself in that little room, over and over again:

“Good tea… what a lovely fragrance…”

Sometimes, he’d speak dreamily, calling out a name:

“Ming’er… Ming’er…”

But when the servants went in to tidy up, they found nothing but old, stale leaves. The so-called “good tea” was nothing more than years-old dregs.

The tea set was mottled with cracks and stains.

One of the older servants, who had been around long enough to know, whispered to them:

The one who died… was the master’s beloved.

He had been forgotten here for many years—until death finally claimed him.

In those years, that boy scrimped and saved, spending every spare coin on the finest tea leaves.

Every night, he brewed a fresh pot of tea—just in case his master returned, unannounced.

For years and years, the unused leaves dried, aged, turned to dust.

Just like the boy.

Just like the love.

Just like the fate they shared.