The Tea Shop Between Time

It was raining again.

Not the kind of rain that demands attention, but the kind that feels like it’s been falling for centuries — quiet, tired, and personal. Riya didn’t have an umbrella. She hadn’t planned to be out this long. But something about walking in the rain made her feel less invisible. It mirrored the storm inside her — slow, persistent, and unspoken.

She didn’t know where she was going.

Maybe she never had.

The city blurred around her, neon lights bending through tears she hadn’t cried. Her phone battery had died an hour ago, but she hadn’t noticed. She wasn’t trying to find anything in particular — except maybe something that would explain the heavy ache in her chest. That quiet kind of ache that doesn’t scream, but settles. Like dust on furniture no one touches anymore.

⸻

There had been so many moments — quiet, painful — when she missed him most.

The first time she learned to ride a bike, wobbling and scared, she looked around for his steady hand, but it was only the wind that caught her.

On her 10th birthday, she unwrapped a gift meant to be from him — an empty box, because he had already gone, and the promise of a present was all that remained.

Nights spent staring at the dark ceiling, whispering questions no one answered.

Watching other girls clutch their fathers’ hands in the schoolyard, feeling invisible in the crowd.

The ache of milestones passed without him — graduations, heartbreaks, late-night talks with friends about what a father should be.

She carried his absence like a shadow — sometimes faint, sometimes sharp — shaping her, but never defining her.

⸻

And then she saw it.

Tucked between two closed bookstores — one with faded poetry collections in the window, the other with nothing but cobwebs and silence — was a narrow doorway glowing amber. A hanging wooden sign creaked softly in the breeze:

The Tea Shop Between Time

Riya squinted. She didn’t remember this street, much less this shop. The windows were fogged, the kind of warm glow that invites the lost and turns them into guests.

The door opened before she touched it. A bell rang. Not the sharp jingle of metal — but a deep, chime-like note that settled in her bones. Not in her ears, but in her chest. Like being remembered by a place you’ve never been.

⸻

Inside, the air was thick with stories.

Not noise — stories. The kind that sit in the silence between people. Shelves lined the walls, overflowing with old teapots, worn books, and forgotten trinkets. A faint smell of cardamom and memory curled through the room.

No music. Just voices — soft, slow, and unfinished.

At first glance, it looked like any other cozy place. Until she noticed the people.

A girl with ink-stained fingers was writing a letter she’d never send. A man sat with his face in his hands, whispering something like a prayer. An old woman stared into her cup like it held someone she once loved. A child laughed quietly — but when Riya looked closer, there was no one across from her.

Behind the counter stood a woman with silver eyes, as if her gaze had seen many lifetimes and no longer needed explanation.

“Welcome,” she said.
Her voice was calm, warm. Like rain on a tin roof.
“You’re right on time.”

Riya opened her mouth to speak — to ask where she was, or how this place existed — but nothing came out.
She just nodded and took the seat by the window that was somehow waiting for her.

⸻

A teacup appeared before her — steaming, fragrant, unfamiliar. It smelled like jasmine, longing, and something that felt like home.

Around her, voices swirled.

“I was never remembered at all.”
“I was remembered by too many people… and none of them got it right.”
“They loved the version of me they created. Not the one I actually was.”
“I used to think I was empty. Now I know I was just full of other people’s expectations.”

Riya closed her eyes.

These weren’t strangers. These were reflections. She had thought these things too. Carried them like unspoken luggage. All the years she had filled her life with people who didn’t understand her — just to feel less alone. All the roles she played to feel chosen, visible, wanted.

And in all that noise, she had forgotten her own voice.

Then, across the room — near a shelf of antique clocks that had all stopped ticking — she saw him.

⸻

He sat alone, yet he didn’t look lonely. His presence was quiet, steady — like the center of a spinning world.

Not in the way she remembered him from the handful of childhood photographs. But real. Alive. As if time had simply paused and allowed this one impossible meeting. His eyes still held the kindness she remembered in flickers — the kind that made you feel seen without needing to explain yourself.

She hadn’t known she was still waiting for him. But now that he was here, every ache inside her made sense.

He was the one she had imagined walking beside her on school mornings. The one she wanted to make proud when she won second place in handwriting. The one who should’ve been there during the sleepless nights, the heartbreaks, the moves, the milestones. The one who never got to stay.

She used to look at other girls with their fathers and think, They have what I don’t. She built her life around that empty space — filled it with people she didn’t really choose, carried roles that didn’t fit, because somewhere deep down she believed that without him, she was somehow incomplete.

Now, across the table, he smiled at her.

Not apologetically. Not sadly.

Knowingly.
Like he had always been watching, from somewhere just beyond the veil.

When she sat across from him, she didn’t ask, Why did you leave?
She asked, Why did I think I wasn’t whole without you?

And he replied — not aloud, but in a way that reached her anyway:

“You were never waiting to be filled, Riya.
You were always the cup.
You were always enough.”

⸻

The silver-eyed woman approached and whispered softly,
“Everyone here holds the power to grant one true wish. Tell me — what is yours?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her voice barely a whisper, she said, looking at him
“I want to hug you tightly.”

He opened his arms, and she ran into his arm, the warmth and comfort overwhelming.

Hugging him close, she whispered,
“I love you, Baba.”

In that embrace, time slowed, and the aching emptiness began to fade.

⸻

Back at her table, her teacup was empty.

But for the first time in years, she felt whole.

The silver-eyed woman returned with a folded slip of paper and placed it gently before her saying he gave you this note.

No explanation, just this:

“You are not unfinished.
You are not waiting to be chosen.
You were always the home you were searching for.”

Riya stood slowly. The bell chimed again as she stepped outside — not the sound of entering, but of leaving something behind.

The sign was gone. The shop had disappeared.

But she remained.

Whole. Enough. Remembered — by herself.

⸻