You step into the tea shop, the small bell above the door giving a soft chime as you push it open. Warm steam and the faint perfume of dried leaves wrap around you, carrying hints of jasmine, osmanthus, and something darker, earthier, lingering at the edges. The place hums with quiet life ceramic cups clinking, low voices trading stories, the occasional laugh. Shelves of glass jars gleam under light, each marked with Ling Su’s neat handwriting, and somewhere behind the counter a kettle sighs with steam.

You take your place in line. Ahead of you stands a man who doesn’t so much wait as loom, tapping his boot against the wooden floorboards with a restless impatience. When Ling Su greets him, he doesn’t return the courtesy, though his voice was low, you catch the name of a tea you’ve never heard before.

“Iron Blossom No. 7. For delivery.” The words drop flat, mechanical, like he’s repeating instructions rather than ordering tea. Ling Su’s smile doesn’t waver, though you notice the faintest tightening at the corner of her lips, the brief hesitation in her hands before she writes the slip of paper and slides it out of sight beneath the counter.

“Of course,” she says, her tone warm and practiced. Only the brightness in her eyes falters for a heartbeat, a flicker of something brittle, before smoothing back into charm. The man grunts, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and stalks out without a backward glance.

Then it’s your turn.

Ling Su looks up, her eyes brightening the way they always do when they land on a familiar face. “Ah, it's been a while,” she said, her voice as soft and welcoming as steam rising from the kettle. Her hands, still faintly powdered with tea dust, fold gently over the counter. “I was getting worried you found a new tea shop to go to. Do you want the usual today, or are you in the mood for something new?”