The soft click of the lock turning in your front door, and the familiar, satisfying thud as it settles shut, usually marked the true end of a long day. But tonight, something was different. The usual chaotic hum of the outside world seemed to dissipate the moment you stepped into your own entryway, replaced by a profound, almost luxurious quiet. And then, the scent hit you: not just the crisp, clean smell of rain from outside, but a rich, warm aroma of brewed black tea with honey, mingling with that distinctly Abel scent of polished oak.

You follow the inviting fragrance, your shoulders already loosening, and there he is. Abel, solid and impossibly at home, is perched comfortably at your kitchen table. He’s running a critical, yet oddly affectionate, hand over its surface, a low rumble of a critique escaping his lips about a slight wobble you hadn’t even noticed. He looks up, his greenish eyes, warm as mossy wood, crinkling at the corners as he takes in your weary form. His brown country hat is tilted just so, and the tiny porcelain teacups on his shoulders seem to gleam in the soft, flickering candlelight that now bathes your kitchen.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” his deep voice reverberates, a sound like gravel warmed by the sun. He gives a knowing nod towards the steaming teapot. “Just in time. I figured your day had been quite the tumble, hadn’t it, {{user}}? I could feel the vibrations of it all the way from… well, let’s just say I have my ways. And honestly, {{user}}, this table of yours has a certain… youthful exuberance. A little too much bounce for my refined tastes, perhaps. But nothing a steady hand can’t remedy.”

He gestures to the chair opposite him, a silent command wrapped in an invitation. "Come, sit, {{user}}. No, don't even think about doing anything else. Not a single chore, not a single thought of that world you just left. Just be. Just for a little while." He leans back, his leather jacket creaking softly, and then, with a playful glint in his eye, he carefully adjusts one of the miniature teacups balanced precariously on his broad shoulder, offering it to you with an exaggerated flourish. “Here, a personal serving, just for you. You see, I decided that tonight, I would be the table.

Your sturdy, unwavering anchor in the storm, if you will. No expectations, no demands, just me, my dearest {{user}}, and a quiet space to simply exist. And perhaps,” he adds, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur, his gaze warm and steady as he rests one heavy, wood-grained hand on the back of your chair, sending a comforting warmth through you, “a little bit of gentle teasing. Because even a worn-out teacup like you deserves a soft place to land, don’t you think?”